Indecent Proposal
by thebridgeovertheriverkwai
Summary: Hermione and Ron desperately want to move out of the Burrow. In an attempt to increase their savings they decide to try their luck at gambling at the finale of the Quidditch World Cup. When they end up losing everything, the billionaire owner of the English Quidditch team offers them a chance to get it all back. The only thing he wants in return ... is one night with Hermione. AU.
1. Chapter 1 - the Bet

Disclaimer: I don't own anything that relates to the Harry Potter series or franchise. Anything you might recognize is borrowed, everything else is, well, mine.

This story is loosely based on the movie _Indecent Proposal_ from 1993.

* * *

**Chapter 1 - the Bet**

"Bloody hell," Ron Weasley exclaimed excitedly as he ushered his wife into the heavily guarded VIP box of the English National Quidditch Stadium, located way above the heads of the rest of the crowd.

The 424th edition of the Quidditch World Cup was being held just outside the small town of Madeley in England and tickets to the finale between Bulgaria and Egypt had been sold out for months. Ron and Hermione, however, had through a stroke of incredible luck been able to not only procure _two_ tickets, but two of the most after sought ones.

"Oh my," Hermione said in awe as she looked around the small but luxuriously decorated room. A smooth, thick, red carpet lay on the floor and four plush high-back reclining chairs in leather were placed smack dab in the middle, facing the pitch down below. Just beside the door, a butler with white gloved hands hovered quietly, waiting to be addressed.

"Uhm, hullo?" Ron said uncertainly, trying to make eye contact with the thin-lipped man in front of him.

"Good evening, sir," the butler replied immediately. "Can I get you some refreshments?"

"Er, yeah, sure." Ron ran a hand through his hair awkwardly. "Butterbeer and some snacks would be great, thanks."

The butler nodded in response and quickly left the room.

"How did Harry manage to get these seats in the first place?" Hermione whispered as she walked up to railing, clutching it tightly as she took in her surroundings. The view was spectacular.

"He didn't say." Ron shrugged. "And I don't care. This is bloody fantastic!"

Harry Potter was at home, tending to his very pregnant wife, who at any moment could be giving birth to the couple's first child. He had grumpily, reluctantly and at the very last minute offered the tickets to his two best friends only when Ginevra Potter had threatened him with divorce, roaring that if he so much as _dreamed_ of leaving her side he would find himself out on the street.

The butler soundlessly returned with two bottles of butterbeer and a basket of assorted sweets and snacks, placing them on a small coffee table beside the chairs. "Let me know if there's anything else you need."

"Thank you," Hermione said softly from her place by the railing. "You know," she smiled and turned to Ron. "I could get used to this."

Ron snorted as he unwrapped what looked like a piece of very expensive chocolate and popped it in his mouth. "Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you? We couldn't afford this even if I got a second _and_ a third job." He plopped down in one of the chairs, beckoning to Hermione to sit down beside him. "Come on, love, the game is about to begin."

"Sir?" The butler approached them again, hesitantly this time. "I'm sorry to bother you." He pulled out a piece of parchment from an inside pocket. "I've been instructed to ask all of our VIP-guests if they would like to bet on the game?"

Ron furrowed his brows and cast a side-ways glance at Hermione. She sat down next to him and slowly nodded her approval. "We would actually," she replied, looking nervously at the butler.

After three years of married life, Ron and Hermione were still living at the Burrow. It had started out as a temporary solution and a temporary solution alone, making it possible for them to save up some money for a place of their own. Cramped up on a moth-eaten double bed in Ron's old boy's room, where the walls were still lined with posters of old Quidditch teams and out-dated wizarding bands, they had discussed ambitious saving strategies and enthusiastically planned for the future.

But when Ron suddenly was kicked out of his Aurory-training and had to take a minimum wage job as a security guard at Gringotts, their chances of leaving the Burrow any time soon had quickly disappeared. Hermione, having two years of school left before graduating to be the youngest Charms professor in the history of the Charms Institute of London, was not exactly rolling in cash. With her tight student budget and Ron's meager pay they could hardly make ends meet, much less put away any money.

So after much consideration and after a particularly hard month coping with Molly, Hermione had finally given in to an insane idea of Ron's. They would try their luck at gambling.

_Sometimes you have to make a leap of faith_, Hermione thought, snapping back to reality.

"Splendid," the butler said, giving them a small smile. "Let me explain the set-up for you. Naturally the wager involves picking a winner of the game. The rules, however, dictate that you also need to bet on whichever team you think will lead at half-time. Should your bet turn out to be correct, you double your money. _If_ you win and would like to quit after half-time, that's fine. If you lose at half-time but still want to put down more money, that's also fine. If you win at half-time and decide to continue and your new bet turns out to be correct when the whistle blows, your money is doubled once more."

"Sounds pretty straightforward to me," Ron replied. "Hang on a second." He clumsily leaned over the armrest towards Hermione. "How much do you reckon?" he asked quietly, searching her face.

"I don't know." Hermione bit her lip, debating with herself inwardly. "All or nothing at all?" she said and scrunched up her face in a grimace.

"_Everything?_ Are you sure?"

Hermione sucked in a breath of air and slowly exhaled.

_Think about your future. Ron's happiness. Your happiness. The prospect of a yard. Being able to drink a cup of coffee alone at breakfast, without anyone nagging you about grandchildren._

_But if you lose ..._ another little voice in her head added _... you'll be living with Molly and Arthur for the rest of your life._

She shook her head._ Shut up._

"Let's just ... let's just do it," she said finally.

"Alright." Ron squeezed her hand reassuringly. "There's a fifty-fifty chance after all ... all we need is a teeny, tiny point in our favor."

He then turned to the butler, telling him to put down their 17, 394 galleons on a lead for Bulgaria in the first half of the game. The butler lazily scribbled down the number on his parchment, then nodded almost invisibly before returning to his post by the door.

* * *

"MERLIN'S RUDDY UNDERPANTS! I can't believe this!" Ron yelled happily, punching the air. Bulgaria had indeed managed to score 200 - 165 at half-time, doubling their stake. Wildly grinning, he rushed over to where Hermione was sitting, scooped her up in his arms and swirled her around the room.

"Put me down!" she squealed in between laughs.

"Wow, I mean ... _wow_, this is crazy," Ron stammered as he gingerly put her down, planting a wet kiss on her forehead. Hermione heaved a joyous sigh of relief and slumped back in her chair. She couldn't believe they had just landed over 17, 000 galleons on _sheer luck_. If this wouldn't push them in the right direction, i.e. _out of Molly's suffocating arms,_ she didn't know what would.

"Ahem." The butler suddenly cleared his throat loudly, in a not so subtle attempt of getting their attention. "I've been notified by the owner. He wants to congratulate you personally and will be here in a minute."

"Oh," Ron said, a genuinely surprised look on his face. "Alright. Thats ... nice, I suppose."

"I wonder who he is?" Hermione said distractedly, a grin still plastered on her face.

A soft knock on the door brought her out of her daydreaming. "That must be him," she said to Ron as she got up on her feet. "Why is your shirt so wrinkly?" she hissed, making Ron nervously try to flatten it out. The butler cast a swift look over his shoulder, clicked his tongue disapprovingly and then slowly opened the door.

"You!" Hermione gasped in astonishment and almost toppled backwards over the coffee table when none other than Severus Snape strode into the room.

"What the ...?" Ron said, but trailed off, bewildered, his eyes widening like saucers.

Hermione hadn't seen Snape since a team of Healers rushed him to St Mungo's right after the final battle four years ago, and she almost had to force her mouth shut at the sight before her.

The rather tatty teaching robes he had been wearing back in her Hogwarts' days were replaced by a set of _much_ more expensive ones in dark navy, with large silver snakes embroidered in the fabric. The billowing qualities, however, and his trademark buttons, were unsurprisingly incorporated in this new but still strangely familiar look of his.

His hair, although still at shoulder-length, had threads of grey in it and looked washed and tended to. His sallow skin had a healthier tinge to it and the yellow, crooked teeth from his earlier life seemed to be a mere memory. He looked elegant ... and _rich_.

Snape observed his two ex-students, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, amusement dancing in his eyes.

"Mr Weasley, Miss Granger," he said, almost politely, and gave them both a nod.

_Why isn't he surprised to see us?_ Hermione thought, confused, but then it dawned on her. _Oh. He's the damn _owner_. Of course he knows who uses his VIP seats._

"It's _Mrs Weasley_, actually," Ron said, finding his voice, snaking an arm around Hermione's waist possessively.

"Of course," Snape drawled, raising an eyebrow. "I do apologize."

"I hear you've had a streak of good luck?" Snape continued as he closed the gap between the couple and himself. "I'm here to congratulate you, as is the custom of anyone in my ... position."

"_You_ own the English Quidditch team?" Ron asked skeptically.

"Amongst other things," Snape replied vaguely, snapping his fingers. A house-elf immediately appeared by his side.

"What can Tibby do for master, sir?" the little elf said and bowed deeply before the man.

"Will you fetch us some champagne, Tibby? Thank you."

The house-elf disappeared with a pop but returned almost instantaneously, balancing a tray of three champagne-filled crystal glasses and an an expensive looking bottle of Dom Perignon.

"To your success," Snape said and held up his glass in a toast towards the couple, taking a sophisticated sip.

He then put down his glass and clasped his hands behind his back, watching as Ron gulped down the champagne like it was pumpkin juice and then wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt.

"I wonder ..." A crease between Snape's brows appeared. "Will you continue?" he asked, turning to face Ron.

"I-I ... it's a lot of money at stake," Ron replied, his eyes swiveling between his wife and his ex-professor. "I don't think—"

"It's your decision to make of course," Snape said, running a hand across the back of one of the chairs. "To walk away with whatever it is you've already got or ... to double it." A gleam appeared in his dark, obsidian eyes. A sort of gleam that belongs to somebody with too much money, too much time and too little respect for either.

"Yeah, well. Maybe we should," Ron replied quickly, sudden determination flitting across his face.

"Ronald, wait. He's _baiting_ you," Hermione hissed through clenched teeth as she dug her fingers into his arm. "Let's talk about this. Please."

"Can't you feel it, 'Mione?" he said, looking straight at her. "We're on a roll here. And think of all the things we could do!" he continued enthusiastically. "We could buy that house you wanted _and_ travel!"

"I just think we're pushing it." She lowered her voice, turning them away from the penetrating eyes of Severus Snape. "It's everything we have, _everything_ we've saved up."

"I know, I know." Ron pinched his nose. "But if there's one thing I know, it's _Quidditch_," he said as he took her hands in his, an almost pleading note in his voice. "I have a good feeling. Trust me, love, just this once."

"Sir?" the butler suddenly inquired, forcing the couple to brake their gaze. "The game is about to resume, I need to know if you—"

"We'll do it," Ron cut off firmly, letting go of Hermione's hands. "We'll put the lot on Bulgaria."

"Very well," the butler replied, nodding in affirmative.

Ron cast a quick glance at Hermione but she refused to meet his eyes.

"Brave, Mr Weasley," Snape said slowly. "Or foolish." He smirked. "We'll just have to wait and see."


	2. Chapter 2 - the Proposal

**Chapter 2 - the Proposal**

Hermione stared blankly into space, her fists clenched, making her knuckles white. The lights in the stadium were shutting down and people were filing out. She felt ... numb, everything around her seemed fuzzy, slow. All she could feel was her own blood pounding painfully in her ears, and the prickling of tears in the corner of her eyes.

_This can't be happening_, she thought for the hundredth time.

Two minutes prior, she and Ron had been hugging each other ecstatically, celebrating what had seemed like an easy Bulgarian victory. But then, with only seconds left of the game, Egyptian Seeker Rawya Zaghloul had caught the Snitch, beating Viktor Krum to it by millimeters, ending the game at 450 to 300.

Hermione forced her eyes shut. Every little galleon, sickle and knut that they had managed to scrape together was now irrevocably gone. She felt like vomiting.

Ron sat beside her, with his head buried in his hands, his body slightly trembling. "I'm sorry," he said in a muffled voice. "I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," she said hollowly, but they both knew it was a lie.

Suddenly Snape cleared his throat behind them. Hermione snatched her head up and glared in his direction. She had forgotten he was in the room.

"We should leave," she said in a strained voice as she got up, patting her husband on the shoulder. "Come on, Ron."

"I feel inclined to apologize since it seems I've played quite a large part in this unfortunate turn of events," Snape said slowly.

"Really?" Hermione sneered. "How considerate of you." Ron still hadn't moved an inch from the chair. "Ron," she hissed. "Get. Up." Eventually he rose, following her towards the door in a zombie-like trance.

"Wait," Snape said, just as Hermione was about to turn the doorknob. She whirled around, not in the mood for any more sarcastic small talk.

"What?" she snarled. "Don't you think you've done enough?"

Snape eyed her intently, seemingly oblivious to her tone of voice. "I have a proposition ... of sorts." He paused briefly. "What would you say if I told you that you could get all of your money back. And more."

This caught Ron's attention and for the first time since the whistle had blown, ending the game, he looked up, a sparkle of hope in his eyes. "What do you mean?" he croaked.

"I have money, I have businesses and I have security, but you have something that I just don't have," Snape continued off-handedly, gazing out the room.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at the man in front of her. "What could we possibly have that you want?"

"Companionship. Friendship," Snape replied, and then hesitantly added, "Love."

"Well, I guess there's limits to what money can buy," Hermione snorted disdainfully.

Snape smirked. "Not many."

"Some things just aren't for sale," Hermione bit back at once.

"Such as?" Snape arched a brow.

"You can't buy people."

"That's quite naive, Miss Gr-_Mrs Weasley_. I happen to buy people everyday."

Hermione regarded her former professor disbelievingly. That was a cold, heartless thing to say, even by his standards. "In business, maybe. But not when real emotions are involved," she retorted.

"So, what are you saying?" Snape looked at Hermione, a curious expression on his face. "You can't buy love? That's a bit of a cliché, don't you think?"

Hermione clicked her tongue irritably. "It doesn't make it less true, cliché or not."

Snape swiftly turned to Ron. "What do _you_ think, Mr Weasley?"

"I agree with Hermione," Ron said defiantly. "But I still don't understand—"

"You do?" Snape interrupted. "Well, let's test the cliché. Suppose I were to offer you one million galleons ..." He quirked his lips. "For one night with your wife."

"What? Are you—" Ron whipped out his wand, furiously yelling, "ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR BLOODY MIND?"

"Ron!" Hermione gasped. Snape, however, was too quick for him and with a lazy flick of his wrist made Ron's wand soar across the room, clattering to the floor when it hit the wall on the other side.

"No wonder you were kicked ut of the Aurory Academy," Snape sneered. "That kind of unpredictable behavior would indeed be a liability to the force."

"Shut up!" Ron bellowed. "How do you even know about that, you bastard!"

"Ron," Hermione said, raising her voice slightly. "He's trying to wind you up!" She shot Snape a dirty look. "Don't stoop down to his level."

"You still haven't answered my question, Mr Weasley" Snape drawled, folding his arms across his chest. "What would you say?"

"He'd tell you to go to hell," Hermione said shakily.

"I didn't hear him," Snape replied curtly.

"I'd tell you to go to hell!" Ron spat.

"Fair enough," Snape smirked. "But that's a reflex answer because you view my offer as hypothetical. Contrary to your belief, however, I'm deadly serious. One million galleons. Now, the night would come and go, but the money could last a lifetime. Think about it." He looked straight at Hermione. "One million galleons. A lifetime of security. For one night. Don't answer right away. But consider it."

* * *

Ron had wrenched the door open and Disapparated from outside the hallway before Snape finished his last sentence, and was now furiously stalking across the field towards the Burrow.

"Ron? Wait!" Hermione cried, jogging behind him. "RON!"

He turned around reluctantly. "Who in the bloody hell does he think he is!" he shouted.

"I don't know, I don't care, please, let's just forget about it," she practically sobbed as she caught up with him by the front door. She grabbed a hold of his arm and forced him look at her. "Please, Ron."

"We've lost _everything_, Hermione!" Ron spread his arms dejectedly. "And that smug, greasy, revolting _git_ comes strutting in, waving his millions in our faces ... and to even think that he thought he could—"

"What's going on out here?" The door creaked open and Molly Weasley peered out. "I heard raised voices! Is something wrong?" She eyed both of them suspiciously. "Why don't you come inside, have a piece of fruit cake. It's freshly made, straight from the oven."

Ron mumbled something under his breath, shoved his hands in his pockets and squeezed past his mother through the door. Giving her mother-in-law a small smile, Hermione quickly followed in her husband's wake.

"Oi, Ron!" George called out from the kitchen. He and Arthur were huddled up together at the end of the long table, poring over some old photographs while devouring two large pieces of fruit cake. "How was the game?"

"Rubbish," Ron said as he slumped down beside his brother. Molly immediately sliced up two more pieces, placing them on the table. She then poured tea in two well-used, chipped mugs and beckoned for Hermione to sit down.

"What do you mean, rubbish? You had brilliant bloody seats!" George replied skeptically.

"Yeah, well. Egypt won," Ron muttered, his mouth full of cake. "And then we ran into _Snape_."

Hermione shot Ron a glare. The last thing she needed was for the whole Weasley clan to know what Snape hade offered. And to what prize.

"Really?" Arthur asked, puzzled. "I knew he survived Nagini's attack, but I never thought he'd return to the wizarding world again. Did you talk to him?"

"Yeah, we—" Ron began.

"No," Hermione cut in quickly. "He hadn't changed one bit." She forced a laugh. "Didn't want to stop and chat with us, really."

Arthur made a non-committal grunt. "Sounds like him."

The three Weasley men then threw themselves into a wild discussion about Bulgaria's defense strategies, ruthlessly shredding the team's failed tactics to pieces.

Hermione rubbed her temples distractedly. She felt a headache coming on.

"Are you alright, dear?" Molly asked, pursing her lips.

"I'm fine. I think I just need to go to bed," Hermione replied, a little bit more curt than she had intended.

"Hermione," Molly dropped her voice to a whisper. "I can't help but ... wonder. You've seemed, well, a little off lately. A tad bit grouchy, if you don't mind me saying so."

The older woman searched Hermione's face expectantly. "Are you _pregnant_? Merlin knows that those hormones can make anyone, even a sensible girl like yourself, a little crazy."

_What?_ Hermione coughed uncomfortably and stared at her mother-in-law in disbelief.

"No, I'm definitely not pregnant, if anything I'm just ..." She cast a desperate glance at Ron. He had his eyes pinned on the table, his ears glowing a brilliant shade of crimson. She could tell he had been listening in on every word of their conversation. "I'm just tired, Molly. Really."

_And the only thing making me crazy is living under this roof._

Molly's face fell. "Oh." She wiped her hands on her apron. "I didn't mean to pry, I just thought that maybe ..." she trailed off as a large, grey owl swooped in through an open window and clumsily landed next to Arthur, knocking over an empty mug. The owl hooted twice and stuck it's leg out, directing the group's attention to where a small missive was fastened.

"That looks like a St Mungo's owl," George said, furrowing his brows.

"Well, go on, Arthur, open it," Molly said impatiently.

Arthur swiftly wiped his hands on a napkin before unfolding the parchment, quickly reading its content. When he got to the end of it, he immediately leaped from his chair. "Ginny and Harry are at the hospital! They're having the baby!" he said, the words rushing out of his mouth.

"Oh, heavens, finally!" Molly clapped her hands together excitedly. "We've got to go! Now!" She all but ran to the coatrack, wrestling on a worn-looking cloak, snatching up her handbag from the floor.

George and Ron rose simultaneously, exchanging uncertain looks.

"Not you," Molly said hurriedly. "We can't all come barging in, can we? We don't even know how far along she is, it could be hours before the baby arrives. I'll send an owl when we know more!"

And with that, she and Arthur hurdled out the door.

* * *

Hermione lay staring at the ceiling. Ron was fast asleep beside her, grunting and snoring, tossing and turning. She wrapped her blanket more tightly around her body. _How is it even possible for him to sleep right now?_ she thought, annoyed.

"Ron." She nudged him in the side. "Wake up."

"What-whatsgoingon?" he slurred, groggily turning to face her. "What time is it?"

"It's five in the morning."

"Why are you up?" he groaned.

Hermione pulled herself into a sitting position and leaned back against the headboard. "I can't stop thinking about it."

"Uh, I'm sure Ginny's fine, love," Ron said, stifling a yawn." And Mum said she'd owl us, remember?"

"Not that," Hermione said haltingly.

Ron rubbed his eyes, confused. "Then what?" he asked, when the penny suddenly dropped. "_Snape_?"

Hermione nodded.

"Yeah, I have a hard time getting that out of my head too," he replied, exhaling loudly.

Hermione watched him tentatively as she fiddled with the hem of her nightgown.

"Maybe we should just, you know, talk about it."

Ron bolted upright, staring at her, mouth wide open. "What are you on about?"

"Let's think about this rationally," Hermione said a little bit more firmly. "How bad could it possibly be?"

"Are you completely mental?" he snapped, a disgusted look on his face. "What's that even supposed to _mean_? Is this something you'd think you'd _enjoy_?"

"No!" Hermione bit her lip. "But think about what this money could do for us, for our future. We could move out of here for one, start somewhere new. I could pay off my loans and you'd be free to do something else, something you'd really _want_ to do ..."

She looked down on her hands. "And we love each other, right?"

"Of course. I love you more than anything, you know that," Ron said weakly. "I can't believe we're even talking about this. It's _Snape_, for God's sake, 'Mione." He looked at her dejectedly. "I don't want you to do it."

"But you'd _let_ me do it?" She cast a sideways glance at him.

"No." He shook his head frantically. "No way."

"It wouldn't mean anything, Ron," Hermione said softly. "It's not my mind or my emotions. Or my heart. Just my body. We'll be the ones using him, really."

They relapsed into a strained silence. Birds were chirping outside, the sun rising; it's dazzling light trickling in through the thick, plum-colored curtains draping the small window.

"Do you really think we could do something like that?" Ron whispered, avoiding looking at her.

"We would just have to forget that it ever happened," Hermione sighed. "And not talk about it or discuss it. Not even once. We would have to treat it for what it is. Which is nothing. Nothing of importance."

* * *

Hermione clutched a cup of steaming hot coffee. She was alone in the kitchen for once.

Molly and Arthur were still at the hospital and George had gone home to his apartment in Diagon Alley, located above his joke shop, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. And Ron had stubbornly stayed in bed, refusing to be with her when she answered Snape.

She let out a small sigh. When she finally mustered up the courage to send the note, it only contained four words.

_I will do it._

A couple of hours later found Hermione nervously pacing back and forth in the living room. Ron sat quietly on the sofa, gazing out the window, lost in thought.

A rather rotund bird had delivered news from St Mungo's just minutes earlier, telling them that baby James had arrived at 7 o'clock that morning and that both parents, though tired, were overcome with happiness.

But not a word from Snape.

A sudden noise made them both jump, jerking their heads in the direction of the sound. A sleek, black bird was pecking aggressively on the window pane. Ron hurriedly flung the window open and the bird flew in, dropped an envelope on the floor nonchalantly, flapped its wings irritably and then flew out.

Hermione stared at the offensive bird's retreating form for a moment, before bending down, picking up what undoubtedly was Snape's response and tore the flap open.

* * *

_Hermione,_

_I''m pleased to hear it. Although I can't say I'm surprised, I had a distinct feeling you would._

_Please read enclosed contract, sign and return to me as soon as possible._

_Yours truly,_

_S. Snape_

* * *

Hermione let out a frustrated scream. "How _dare_ he?" She angrily tossed the letter to Ron.

"Sodding creep," he said through clenched teeth, as he read it.

Hermione carelessly unfolded the second parchment and skimmed through it, her eyes widening with each word.

* * *

_Contract of Consummation_

_This contract constitutes a complete and binding agreement between Severus Snape and Hermione Weasley._

_Mr Snape hereby employs Mrs Hermione Weasley and Mrs Weasley __agrees to serve Mr Snape as provider of company and sexual services for the purpose of consummating with Mr. Snape, i.e. sexual intercourse and participating in certain related sexual activities during one (1) night, for the consideration of one million galleons (1,000,000 galleons)._

_The money will be deposited in Hermione Weasley's account at Gringotts Wizarding Bank immediately after the contract has been fulfilled._

_In addition, Severus Snape reserves the right to decide when this night will take place._

* * *

"Hang on, 'Mione," Ron said, having read the letter over her shoulder. "This is not ... Let's just forget about this." He grabbed her hand. "Forget about Snape and his ridiculous contract."

"We talked about this," Hermione replied with a frown. "There's no turning back now, Ron." She freed herself from his grasp and with a slight grimace grudgingly scribbled down a shaky signature on the dotted line. Purple lights tracing the ink sparkled lightly and disappeared, indicating that the contract had been magically sealed as well.

She then walked over to a small desk in the corner of the room, whipped out a small piece of paper from a drawer and wrote down a single question, shoving both parchments into an envelope.

_When?_

This time, the answer came almost immediately.

* * *

_Hermione,_

_I'll let you know._

_SS_

_PS. Do cheer up. You might even enjoy this._


	3. Chapter 3 - the Box

**Chapter 3 - the Box**

Not knowing turned out to be a torturous affair.

Hermione went about her days as a nervous wreck, desperately pushing the thought of the inevitable meeting to the back of her mind. In spending an unreasonable amount of hours at school in the daytime and most of her nights buried in house listings, she hoped that her mind and body would be too exhausted to even think about what was waiting for her around the corner.

She was wrong. Hardly a minute went by without her thoughts returning to the ever present image of Snape and her contractual obligations. But if _she_ was on edge, it was nothing compared to what Ron was going through. He was miserable, and miserable to be around.

One evening, however, when Ron was lying in bed, distractedly rifling through an old copy of the Quibbler, muttering to himself, Hermione suddenly made a squeaking noise from her spot on the floor; books, magazines and papers were littered everywhere around her.

"Ron!" she practically screamed. "I've found our house!"

* * *

"Are you sure you can afford this?" the real estate agent asked skeptically. "It's a bit on the ... pricey side."

The small, detached three-bedroom brick-house was situated on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, in a very popular area where houses rarely came up for sale. It had been inhibited by a single, elderly Squib who had been living there for almost all of her life, until she recently passed away, just a couple of weeks ago. It was in dire need of some sprucing up, but it had a wonderfully well-kept garden and every potential in the world to become exactly what they wanted.

"We're sure," Hermione said firmly.

"Right." The agent rifled through some papers and then excused himself for a moment.

Hermione immediately turned to Ron. "What do think?" she asked giddily.

He shrugged. "It's alright, I guess."

She felt a pang of disappointment at his lack of enthusiasm, but decided not to make a big deal about it. It was a big decision, after all.

"Sir, madame," the agent said when he returned, a grim look on his face. "My check-up with Gringotts tells me otherwise, I'm afraid."

"Well, we're expecting some money," Hermione replied.

The agent looked at her suspiciously. "When?"

"In the next two weeks," Hermione lied, feeling Ron stiffen beside her. In reality, she had no idea when she could be expecting to hear from Snape again.

"Would you be able to hold it for us?" she asked, cursing the waver in her voice. She really couldn't help it, she couldn't remember wanting anything as much as she wanted this house.

"Not really," the agent said reluctantly. "But I suppose I could make an exception ... I'll give you two weeks, not a day more, and if you fail to bring me the money in that time, I'll put the house back on the market."

Hermione broke out in a wide grin. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," she said and shook his hand. "Don't worry, you'll get the money."

"So, it's decided then," Ron said hotly, as they were leaving. "You could have bloody well told me before we came here!"

"What are you talking about?" Hermione said, taken aback by his sudden outburst. "Ron, I just made that up so he would hold the house for us!"

The almost childish happiness she had been overcome with a second ago, was now brutally replaced by confusion. _Is this how it's going to be now? Are we going to fight about everything, all the time?_

"Rolled right off your tongue, didn't it, that little lie?" Ron replied testily.

"Do you really think I would sneak around with something like that?" she said shrilly. "You don't think you would notice me gone one night?"

Sudden anger surged through her body. "I'm doing this for _us,_ you know, it's not like I'm getting anything out of it personally!"

Ron slumped his shoulders and looked at her sheepishly. "You're right, you're right." He reached out for her hand, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking."

* * *

It was Saturday, that same week, and the whole Weasley-family, including baby James and his parents, had migrated to the Burrow for the mandatory dinner that took place every weekend.

Molly was frantically bustling around the kitchen, preparing roast for what looked like a party of fifty, while the rest of them hung back in the living room, mostly keeping out of her way but also admiring the newest member of the family.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Molly popped her head into the living room, a perplexed look on her face as she counted her children, their spouses and spawn. "But everyone's here ..." she said. "Ron, could you be a sweetheart and get it?"

Ron shrugged and shuffled over to the door, opening it lazily.

"Hello," he said to the stranger in front of him, suddenly straightening up, his ears growing red. "Can I help you?"

Hermione peeked over Ron's shoulder, her curiosity getting the better of her, and was met by a pair of steely blue eyes belonging to a tall, slim, long-legged woman, with wavy black hair and quite a large set of teeth, holding out a beige box with a navy-blue ribbon tied around it.

"I'm Priscilla Scott, Sev-_Mr _Severus Snape's ... _assistant_," the woman said, looking like she had eaten something quite distasteful. "I'm here to deliver a package for a Hermione Weasley."

There was something instantly dislikable about her that Hermione couldn't quite put her finger on. Maybe it was the way she held the box like it was filled to the brim with rotting cheese, the provocative, slightly haughty tilt of her chin or the almost invisible, disapproving grimace that flitted across her features when she scrutinized Hermione's outfit.

Not to mention the way she so reluctantly admitted to being Snape's "assistant". Hermione wrinkled her nose. _Exactly what kind of assistant are we talking about here? s_he thought distractedly.

"Thank you," Hermione said as she grabbed the box.

"You're quite ... welcome," Priscilla replied, flashing Hermione a toothy, insincere smile. She then whipped around and Apparated from the spot.

"Who was it?" Molly called out.

"This absolutely stunning lady," Ron said, a wide goofy grin plastered to his face, as they walked back into the kitchen. "She gave Hermione a gift, or something."

Hermione looked at her husband like he had completely lost his mind. _Was he trying to make her jealous?_

"_Really_, Ron?" She put the box on the table and folded her arms across her chest. "That's how you would describe that ... that creature?"

"Well, yeah, I mean, she _was_." He shrugged. "Objectively," he added, popping an olive into his mouth.

"You shouldn't use such big words, little brother," George teased. "It might do some permanent damage to your head." He nodded indiscreetly towards Hermione. "And your marriage."

"Shut up, George," Ron spluttered, turning to face Hermione, spreading his arms. "How would you describe her then, since my observation was so bloody inaccurate?"

"Well, if you're looking for a noun," Hermione quipped. "The word _horse_ immediately springs to mind."

"Hermione!" Molly cried out disapprovingly. "I'm sure she was perfectly—"

"Sorry, I'm being rude," Hermione interrupted. "She carried that package with immaculate precision, so she was obviously not a horse. Hooves would have made that part particularly difficult."

George broke out in laughter, Molly, however, was not amused. "That's quite enough, dear," she said and raised a chastening finger.

Hermione rolled her eyes, not caring if Molly saw or not. "I'm going upstairs," she muttered, picking up the box.

"I'm coming with you," Ron said quickly. "I want to see what the old git has gotten you."

"I rather do this alone," she snapped, shooting him an angry glare over her shoulder as she began mounting the stairs.

"Hey!" he yelled after her. "What did I do?"

Sighing quietly, Hermione closed the door to their room and put the box on the bed. _It really is a beautiful box, _she thought, as she untied the ribbon and flicked the lid open. A small gasp escaped her lips as she pulled out a silky, black dress. As she held it up to examine it closer, a cream-colored card fell to the floor.

She picked it up, turned it over and instantly recognized the spiky handwriting belonging to Severus Snape.

_Put this on and be ready at 8 o'clock._

Hermione felt her pulse quicken. _So tonight's the night. _She cast a glance at the box, frowning as she noticed a jewelry box of some sort, that had been hidden underneath the dress. She reached in, opened it and gasped again, a little louder this time, when her eyes landed on a pair of diamond earrings and a matching necklace, sitting neatly on a little velvety cushion.

She shook her head, complete and total confusion taking over. She had already signed the contract ... _Why does he even bother? Unless_ ... She shuddered. _Unless it's some sort of twisted dress-up game and he's just doing this to mess with my head. _She exhaled slowly. _He wouldn't. Not even Snape would be that cruel._

* * *

The doorbell rang at exactly 8 p.m. From her spot in front of the mirror in their room on the third floor, Hermione could hear the front door open and then every word of the halting conversation that followed. How Molly awkwardly tried to greet a man she hadn't given so much as a fleeting thought these last couple of years and how Arthur stuttered in his attempt to find something appropriate to say, but failing miserably.

"Good evening, Molly, Arthur," Snape said in his silky baritone. "I'm here to pick up Hermione."

"You're _what_?" Hermione heard George say, disbelief evident in his voice.

She started walking quietly down the stairs and was only a couple of steps away from reaching the bottom when Snape looked up, as if he had sensed her presence, locking eyes with her. He was wearing dress robes that looked very similar to a Muggle tuxedo, but with an elegant black robe draped across his shoulders.

_He cleans up quite nicely_, Hermione surprised herself thinking, then quickly added, _Objectively speaking, of course._

"Hermione," Snape said, an appreciative look on his face. "That dress looks very ... becoming on you."

Leaning against the doorpost to the living room, Ron scoffed loudly and rolled his eyes. He shoved his hands in his pockets, looking at everything and everyone, except his wife.

"Ron," Hermione said pleadingly, trying to catch his eye. He bluntly refused. "I guess I'll see you later, then," she sighed.

He merely waved a hand dismissively in her direction. "Yeah."

"We should get going," Snape insisted, a hint of irritation in his voice. Hermione cast one last glance at Ron before Snape took her hand carefully.

Suddenly she could feel herself turning on the spot; sight and sound extinguishing as darkness pressed in upon her.

Seconds later she found herself on a small stone bridge, looking down on a winding canal.

"Where are we?" she asked as she took in her surroundings, still fighting off some of the dizziness brought on by the Apparition.

They had definitely left England, she concluded thoughtfully, as she regarded the beautifully ornate houses sitting next to the canal. In the distant she could hear a church bell chime, and if she craned her neck slightly she could just make out a medieval but familiar-looking bell-tower.

She whipped her head around, gaping at Snape. _I know this place._ "Is that the Belfry of Bruges?" she asked incredulously.

"Indeed it is." He gave her a small smile.

"And what _exactly_ are we doing in Bruges if I may ask?"

Snape cast a glance at her, raising a questioning eyebrow. "What day is today?" he asked.

She stared at him blankly. "Saturday, May 20th," she answered automatically.

"Why, Hermione, do you mean to tell me that you don't know what takes place here every year around this date?" he drawled.

Hermione racked her brains, coming up with absolutely nothing. She shook her head. "Not really, no."

"It's the annual World Potions conference. You might have heard of it," he said sarcastically, but not unkindly. "And we're here for the gala that starts it all off."

"Oh, right!" She slapped herself mentally. _Of course_.

She had tried to convince Ron to go for years but had been forced to give up when he tried to strike an absurd bargain that included Quidditch season tickets and her accompanying him to at least half of the games. The conference had definitely not been worth _that_ much to her.

"If you get bored of my company, there will be a least a handful of other people worth conversing with," Snape said casually.

_Only some of the brightest witches and wizards in the world, _she thought and immediately felt a nervous flutter somewhere in the area of her gut. "I'm sure," she said and smiled.

As they started walking down a cobbled street, a mild, flowery scent filling the air, she closed her eyes for a second and allowed herself to feel a spark of excitement. She loved her husband, but once in a while she had to admit, even if it only was to herself, that trying to compromise with Ron almost always meant that her wants and needs were pushed aside in favor for his plans and dreams. _You can't always have everything, Hermione_, was one of his favorite lines no matter what argument they seemed to have.

_I'm being unfair_, she thought, instantly feeling guilty. _I know he has my best at heart but sometimes I just—_

Her thought was cut short as Snape suddenly turned left, leading them into a narrow alleyway. "Here we are." He stopped in front of a small door and raised his hand to knock.

"Do try to behave yourself tonight," Snape smirked, glancing at her. Hermione huffed indignantly, causing his smirk to grow into a smile as he rapped on the wooden surface.

It immediately swung open, revealing a short, chubby man in an ill-fitting golden dress robe, clearly a couple of numbers too small. The man broke out in a wide grin upon seeing Snape, spreading his arms welcomingly.

"Finally!" He shook Snape's hand animately, and eagerly stepped aside, letting them pass through the door. "And this must be Hermione," he said, peering over his glasses.

"Nice to meet you, Mr ... ?" she said, uncertainly, surprised that Snape could have that effect on, well, anyone.

"Just say Norman," he said, shooting Snape a look. "You're just in time for the dance," he added. "It starts in five minutes."

Much like the battered old tent that Hermione, Ron and Harry had used in their hunt for Horcruxes, this house was also charmed to be larger on the inside than what it appeared from the outside.

Hermione gazed around the spacious hall, that could just as easily have belonged to a luxurious mansion. Men and women in expensive-looking dresses and robes were milling about, champagne in one hand and a small plate with what looked like canapés straight from a divine kitchen in the other, chatting merrily to each other.

An impressive wooden staircase that forked left and right mid-way up caught Hermione's attention for a second before her eyes wandered to an enormous crystal chandelier that hung from the ceiling. She admitted to herself, reluctantly, that she was quite impressed. She turned to ask Snape what year he thought the house might have been built, only to find him watching her with an amused look on his face.

"What?" she asked, raising an eyebrow, challenging him to question her curiosity.

"Nothing," he said.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

Snape half smiled at her as a waiter approached them, offering champagne. He took two glasses and handed one to Hermione as they moved in to the ballroom together.

"About this dance ..." Snape cleared his throat and cast a sideways glance at her. "There's a requirement for us to participate."

"_What?_ That's ridiculous," Hermione hissed, spilling some of her champagne on the floor. "I won't move a muscle with you unless I absolutely have to!"

Snape smirked, took her glass and placed it on a table next to them, slipped a hand down the small of her back and firmly pushed her onto the dance floor. Leaning in towards her ear, he whispered. "Oh, but you will."

The majority of the conference goers were slowly making their way into the room, lining up by the walls, expectantly waiting for _something_.

Suddenly Norman, the chubby man that had greeted them by the door, now stood behind a podium on a small scene. He pointed his wand towards his throat, and suddenly his voice boomed across the room.

"And now the chairman of the board will start off the dance." He made a wide gesture towards Hermione and Snape, beaming as he said, "Commence!"

"Why are we the only ones—" Hermione began, bewildered, but was cut off by the tunes of a slow waltz.

Snape put his hand on her waist and grabbed her right hand. A feeling of utter terror washed over Hermione as she realized that everyones eyes were fixated on them and them alone. She was a _lousy_ dancer.

Snape must have seen her display of anxiety, because he squeezed her hand reassuringly and then looked her squarely in the eyes.

"Just follow my lead. One, two, three."

And they were off.

Snape moved with ease, which Hermione found quite astonishing, and while the same thing really couldn't be said about her_, _they found a comfortable enough rhythm after a while. They swirled around the room, or attempted to, and after a little while, other couples joined them on the floor, one by one.

"Wait, _you're_ the chairman?" she said breathlessly, mid-way through the song.

"Amongst other things," Snape smirked.

A couple of turns later the song ended and they let go of each other.

"Do you want something to drink?" Snape asked.

She nodded gratefully as she looked for an empty spot by one of the large windows. Another slow tune filled the room and she suddenly stiffened. _Oh._ _I haven't heard this song ... in a long time, _she thought.

"What?" Snape said, searching her face.

"Nothing," she replied quietly.

He looked down his nose at her, an unconvinced expression on his face, and in a fleeting moment she wondered if he was using Legilimency on her, or if she simply was that easy to read.

"Tell me," he insisted.

"It's silly," she sighed, looking down on her hands. "Ron hates Muggle music and I ..." she trailed off. "It's not that I can't live without it ... But I just love this song. It's—"

"Harvest Moon," he cut off, scowling. "I know what song it is."

She looked at him surprisedly. "You do?"

Somewhere in the back of her mind she could recall hearing about Snape's Muggle mother. It made sense, then, for him to have some knowledge of Muggle pop culture.

"But it's the _only_ song by Neil Young that I actually like," she laughed.

"If ... you'd like, we could ..." He gestured to the floor, hesitantly.

"I ..."

_This is wrong. I can't do this._ But at the same time her heart kept making weird little leaps as she imagined being back on the dance floor in the arms of ... _No. I can't. Think about Ron. Remember why you're here._

"I'd like that actually," she heard herself say, and without a second of hesitation, Snape closed the gap between them, holding out his hand for her to take.

"Severus!" a shrill lady-voice suddenly called out. "There you are!"

Hermione instantly let go of Snape's hand, retreating a couple of steps as the owner of the voice came stomping across the floor.

"Priscilla," Snape said icily, something Priscilla Scott either didn't notice or chose to ignore.

"What, pray tell, brings you here?"

"You, of course!" She swatted his arm. "You told me I could come, remember?" She laughed shrilly. "And I know how lost you feel without me on these sorts of events!" She looked around the room and wrinkled her nose.

"But I really don't know why you bother, these people are hardly worth your time." She put a well-manicured hand on his arm. "If Augustus Tirden hadn't been here I honestly would've killed myself," she said, rolling her eyes dramatically.

Hermione had no idea who that was and made a mental note to ask Snape later.

"He's right over there." Priscilla pointed one sinewy finger in the direction of a small bar, surrounded by a group of wizards, at the other end of the room. "I told him I would get you, so you better get your butt over there."

And without even casting a glance at Hermione she turned on her heel, obviously expecting Snape to follow.

Hermione watched Snape carefully, his black eyes were, if possible, even darker, simmering with ... _contempt?_ She couldn't tell. But she _could_ tell that he was far from happy.

"Looks like she doesn't take no for an answer, _Severus_," Hermione said tartly. "You really should try to catch up with her before she gallops away."

Snape snorted. "I won't be long," he replied mirthfully, and then slowly walked across the room to where Priscilla impatiently stood tapping her foot.

* * *

Hermione felt awkward. Her glass was empty, her feet ached and judging by the not so subtle rumbling coming from her stomach, she was famished. And not to mention that she hadn't bumped into a single person that she knew well enough to dare strike up a conversation with.

She was growing restless and annoyed, and had spent at good twenty minutes examining a rather uninteresting painting of a birch tree that hung in the corner of the ballroom, desperately trying to look like that particular piece of art was one of the sole reasons she was there. _Where is that insufferable man?_ she thought irritably, blowing a strand of hair away from her face.

She sighed and gazed out the room. _Hang on_ ... She squinted. _Is that?_

"Professor Slughorn!" she called out, a sense of relief filling her. _Finally, a familiar face!_

Horace Slughorn turned around, his face lighting up. "Miss Granger!" he exclaimed and instantly made his way over to where she was standing. "What a surprise to see you here!" He smiled. "Who are you here with?"

"Professor Snape, actually," Hermione replied, choosing to ignore the use of her maiden name.

"Ah, I should've guessed," he said sotto voce. "Good for him."

"Sorry? I didn't catch that," Hermione said, furrowing her brows.

"Nothing, my dear." Slughorn replied quickly, shooting a look over her shoulder. "Look, there's Fanny!" he said and waved at somebody across the room.

"Let me introduce Mrs. Fanny Kaufmann," Slughorn said, a twinkle in his eyes, as the witch joined them. "Inventor of no less then twenty-two of this centuries most vital potions, including the Blemish Blitzer, the Sore-no-More and lest we forget..." Slughorn wriggled his eyebrows. "Amortentia."

It was obvious that they were old friends, and that Slughorn was teasing the elderly witch, who merely rolled her eyes at his efforts. But Hermione was too starstruck to be amused. She had been fantasizing about meeting Fanny Kaufmann ever since she had read her autobiography, years ago. Fanny was known to use rather unorthodox methods in her research, an approach that very often was rewarded with remarkable results. She had, for instance, been the one to discover a new way of extracting the essence of Dittany, which had tripled the fluid's potency.

Slughorn pointed his drink towards Hermione.

"And this, Fanny, is the brilliant, young Hermione Granger, an ex-student of mine, but more importantly, one of the key-players in bringing down the most evil wizard of all time. It's quite a resumé she's got, this one."

"It's Hermione Weasley these days, actually." Hermione shook hands with the witch, hoping that she wouldn't notice her rather damp palms. "It's an absolute delight meeting you, Mrs. Kaufmann."

"Likewise, my dear," Fanny replied.

"Weasley, you say?" Slughorn cut in. "Married?"

"Yes." Hermione felt a blush coming on. "Four years this August."

"Well, haven't we all been in that predicament at one time or another", Fanny said, nudging Slughorn in the side. He chuckled and took a swig of his martini.

"I must say, Mrs. Kaufmann," Hermione said quickly. "That I think your work is amazing. I'm one of your biggest fans."

"Why, thank you, that's very sweet of you to say." Fanny looked at her, amused.

"How did you do it? Figure out the Dittany-extraction, I mean," Hermione asked a little bit too excitedly. She bit her lip. _Do try to fight the urge to scare off the only celebrity you actually would give your time a day,_ she thought dryly.

"You know," Fanny lowered her voice theatrically. "I've found that there are few things that can't be illuminated or clarified by a healthy shot of brandy."

"Hear, hear," Slughorn chimed in, nodding his approval.

"But to be honest, most of the time I really don't know what the hell I'm doing. That's why it's called research, my dear," she said and shot Hermione a mischievous smile.

_I love this woman_, Hermione thought, grinning.

Slughorn then started a heated discussion on the fifteen different ways to brew the perfect cold sore potion and Hermione joined in eagerly. After half an hour she zoned out, subconsciously searching the room for Snape, absently wondering who he would've sided with.

She quickly found him, in the midst of a group of important-looking wizards, and just as if he could tell that she had been looking for him, he turned around, disentangling himself from whatever conversation he was having. A quirk formed on his lips, and then he raised his glass towards her.

And if it hadn't been completely outrageous, she could have sworn that he gave her an almost invisible little wink.

* * *

Ron dug his fingers into the couch, pain etched across his face as guilt and fear and regret burned like acid in his stomach.

"You look pale, Ronniekins. More than usual, which is quite an achievement given your almost transparent complexion," George said teasingly.

When Ron didn't answer, but merely glared at the wall opposite him, George slumped down into an armchair next to him, a worried crease between his brows replacing his lop-sided grin.

"Seriously, what's the matter? Is it Hermione?"

Ron flinched. "I'm going to lose her. I can feel it."

* * *

"I'm sorry." Snape shot Hermione an apologetic look. "I couldn't get away nearly as quickly as I wanted to. Do you have any idea, _any idea_, how completely dull middle-age wizards, especially rather wealthy ones, can be? I almost longed for a classroom filled with moronic, ill-tempered children. It would have been twice as stimulating intellectually. At the very least. Are you hungry?"

_Is he rambling?_ Hermione thought amusedly. _I think he might be._ _How very odd._

"I could definitely eat." She smiled at him. " But do you know who I happened to stumble across?" she asked, excitedly recapitulating her conversation with Fanny Kaufmann, as Snape led her through a backdoor that took them out into the gardens.

"Yes, she is quite remarkable," he said in the middle of Hermione telling him about the Dittany-discovery. They came to a halt under an impressive oak tree, obviously magically concealed, where a gangly young man was serving deliciously-looking honey-glazed ribs to a queue of hungry people.

Hermione and Snape immediately elbowed their way in, grabbing two plates and a couple of butterbeers and made to sit down at a nearby table, when an unmistakably earsplitting voice rang out, cutting like a knife through the crowd.

"Severus!" Priscilla Scott shrieked. "Severus, are you out here?"

Snape snapped his head around and ducked, looking like a deer caught in the headlights. Quickly ushering Hermione into a secluded part of the garden, he whispered, "Let's just stay here for a while." He sat down on a bench, pinching his nose tiredly with his free hand.

Hermione sat down beside him, placed her plate between them and took a sip from her butterbeer.

"You have a very persistent _assistant_, Severus," she said mockingly. _Though I really doubt the accuracy of that description, _she thought.

"If by "persistent", you mean ambitious, then yes, I do," he replied, as he grabbed a piece of meat and bit into it.

For some reason that answer annoyed her. "No," she pursed her lips. "By persistent, I mean arrogant, demeaning and overall intolerable."

He raised an eyebrow at her, quirking his lips. "Do you always get this snippy when you drink a little?"

"Actually, I do," Hermione replied and looked down on her bottle, frowning. "But I have so many other nice qualities that they more than make up for it," she added.

"I'm sure they do," he said softly.

They ate in silence for a while. Hermione chanced a glance at him every now and then, noticing how the faint light from a couple of floating candles made his features looked softer, younger.

When the last scrap of meat was gone, Snape broke the silence. "What are you going do with the money?" he asked, conjuring a napkin out of a leaf.

"We've looked at a house, actually," Hermione said uncomfortably. This was not a conversation she wanted to have.

"Really?" Snape said, wiping his fingers. "Where?"

"I don't see how that concerns you but ..." She sighed. "It's this absolutely gorgeous little house about a mile from Hogsmeade. It has a small garden, where you could, I don't know, grow herbs. Or roses. Or both, I suppose. And there's this room next to the living room that could be turned into a perfect little library."

"You don't sound that thrilled."

She tried to smile. "I'm not the only one who has a say in where we move."

"Hermione." Snape cleared away the empty plates and bottles from the bench and moved closer to her. He reached out and took her hand in his.

"If you were mine, I would stop at nothing to make you happy. If you wanted to live the rest of your days in the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts, or on a thin branch on the Whomping Willow, I would find a way to make that happen."

He looked at her intently. "And _I_ wouldn't share you with anyone."

She stared at him, fighting the sudden lump in her throat, snatching her hand away from his. "You have no right to judge Ron," she said a little bit too defensively. "You're the one that has to buy women!"

Snape winced, as if she had slapped him. "You think I have to buy women?"

"Well, this little arrangement we've got going on between us certainly involves a money transfer, so I'm fairly sure I'm being bought, yes," she sneered.

"I didn't buy you, Hermione," he said quietly. "I bought _time_."

"That's the same thing."

He regarded her for a while, before hesitantly saying, "We're not going to do anything you don't want. Here ..."

He pulled out a coin from his pocket.

"Since gambling brought us into this situation ... Let's do a coin-flip. Heads, you walk away, no hard feelings. Tails, you come home with me."

Hermione nodded stiffly. "Fine."

Snape flipped the coin high up in the air, caught it lazily and slapped it on the back of his left hand. He then carefully lifted his hand off, revealing the result.

"That's the beauty of a lucky coin," he said casually, giving her a thin-lipped smile. "They rarely let you down."

He offered her his arm. "Shall we?"


	4. Chapter 4 - the Money

**Chapter 4 - the Money**

They Apparated right into the middle of an empty street, in a neighborhood Hermione didn't recognize. Snape immediately set a fast pace and she had to half run to keep up, her high heels clicking aggressively against the asphalt. She shot a look at the man beside her. He looked tense, his jaw set, eyes swiveling back and fort between the rows and rows of run-down brick houses, desperately struggling to keep their depressingly neglected facades upright.

They had left the pleasantly warm Belgian summer for a damp and bone-chilling British night, dark clouds above them threatening a rain storm. She regarded the windows of the houses warily. The ones that weren't boarded up, showed no sign of life, suggesting that they were either uninhabited or that the owners hid in the dark, peeking out from behind the curtains at the odd couple speeding down the street. She turned her head, noticing a rusty street sign on the corner of a particularly pitiful house.

_Spinner's End. _

She suddenly shivered.

"Are you cold?" Snape asked, frowning.

"A little bit. I should've brought a jacket," Hermione replied.

She was more than a little bit cold, actually. Another minute and her teeth would start to chatter. _I'll just cast a warming charm_, she thought and reached up to pull out her wand, which she had incorporated in her hairdo.

But before she even had time to utter the spell, Snape had taken off his outer robe. He swiftly draped it across her bare shoulders and said, "Take this. We're nearly there. And put that away."

He nodded towards her wand, letting his hand fall down to rest on her waist the last couple of steps to the front door. He quickly unwarded the entrance non-verbally and they hurried inside, just as it started to drizzle.

In the small hallway, Snape rapidly unlaced his shoes and stepped out of them, sliding off his bow tie at the same time, seemingly eager to rid himself of the offending garment. Hermione could hear a small sigh of content escape his lips as he unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and she secretly felt a little jealous of how comfortable he seemed to be with the whole situation.

She made a little grimace. It felt like her shoes were trying to hack their way into her bones and she desperately wanted to fling them off.

"Oh sod it," she muttered. She shot Snape a look. "And don't you dare make me feel bad about it."

"I wouldn't dream of it," he smirked.

Once relieved of the sadistic footwear Hermione felt immensely better. She followed Snape into a remarkably cramped sitting room and sat down in a leather chair in front of an unlit fireplace. She curiously gazed around the room. It was, unsurprisingly, filled with bookshelves, stacked to the brim with old tomes, encyclopedias, dictionaries and newspapers. But apart from that, the rest of the room seemed void of personal items. She craned her neck to get a view of the kitchen. From what she could see, it appeared spotless. With unnaturally shiny countertops.

The more she thought about it, the more it felt like a sort of hotel, somewhere to reside in between trips, rather than a _home_. Which in turn made her wonder if he had another place, a _real_ home, and that this was just somewhere, cut off from his real life, where he could entertain women.

"Could I tempt you with some tea?" Snape asked as he took on the delicate task of rolling up the sleeves of his shirt.

_Tea! _Hermione snorted inwardly. She had hoped for something a bit stronger. "Isn't it a little bit too late for tea?" she asked.

"It's never too late for tea. Besides, I want to be alert and have all my senses working properly," he said teasingly, snapping his fingers. Tibby immediately appeared.

"Could you arrange for some tea, please, Tibby?" Snape turned to Hermione. "Would you like something else? Coffee? Water?"

"Water's fine," she said, smiling towards the little elf, who instantly disappeared with a quiet pop.

Hermione bit her lip and debated with herself for a second, but quickly decided that she was too curious not to ask Snape about his rather peculiar living situation.

"So ..." she began a little uncertainly.

Snape looked up, waiting for her to continue.

"I just think it's a little odd for you to be living here," she said. "Given your financial situation."

Snape gave her a minuscule shrug and walked over to the fireplace. "It's my family home. I've lived here all my life."

He pulled out his wand and mumbled something inaudible, making flames erupt in the fire grate.

"And it's ... safe. As safe as anyone in my situation can get. The wards are practically impenetrable. I think I cast the first one when I was only twelve years old, my first summer home from Hogwarts. And then I've just added on. Some I can't even remember."

Hermione nodded. She understood the feeling of wanting a place where nobody could touch you, or your loved ones, all too well. _And there are still people out there that wants to hurt him, of course, _she thought sadly.

Tibby reappeared, her eyes intensely focused on a small table in the middle of the room and the task of putting down the tray with Snape's tea and Hermione's water without spilling a drop. A little triumphant smile formed on the elf's face when she successfully completed the mission, and then, in the blink of an eye, she was gone again. Snape picked up the tea cup, stirred it carefully and took a sip.

"You don't like it," he said. "The house."

It was a statement, not a question.

"I think it needs life," Hermione replied honestly. "Flowers. Dogs. Something."

Snape looked away. "Perhaps." He put the cup back on the saucer. "I want to show you something."

He made a swift gesture with his hand and one of the bookshelves swung open, revealing a narrow staircase leading down to a basement. "Ladies first," he smiled.

Hermione felt her pulse quicken as she walked over to the door, hesitantly peering down into what seemed like an abyss of nothingness.

_This really could be the beginning of any generic horror movie, _she thought._ And this is the moment where the audience yells: "Don't! Don't walk down there!"_ She frowned. _Screw it._ _People in horror movies always waltz right into danger anyway, no matter how many warnings they get._

With one hand clutching a rather rickety railing and the other tracing the wall beside her, she uncertainly descended the stairs. When she reached the bottom, she was engulfed in complete darkness.

"Uhm, Severus?" she said, sudden fear gripping her.

Somewhere behind her she heard Snape clap twice in rapid succession and suddenly the entire room was bathing in the soft light from hundreds of floating candles. She gasped, and almost let out a little whistle, as she laid eyes on what could only be described as a _spectacular_ potions laboratory.

Shelves upon shelves were lining the walls, crammed with countless numbers of jars in various shapes and sizes. Fascinated, Hermione perused the different containers, recognizing a lot of the ingredients instantly. Boomslang skin. Armadillo bile. Runespoor egg. Other jars were tag-less and, she supposed, of a rather questionable nature. Every now and then she came across something she had never even heard of before. And that was saying something.

"The magic disengages the Muggle electrics," Snape explained and cleared his throat. "Hence the need for an excessive amount of candles."

Hermione scoffed quietly. "I'm well aware of the intricacies involved when mixing those particular elements, Severus, being Muggle-born myself," she replied, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "I also happen to know that there are ways around that particular problem." She glanced at him and continued, "It's very cosy."

She could see him cringing, even from meters away, and she couldn't help but smile at his discomfort. She sniggered to herself._ God forbid people would find out that there's a softer side to Severus Snape. The things they would say! _

She continued to look around the room, her eyes landing on four robust workbenches, bolted to the floor in the middle of the lab, equipped with different countertops. Wood. Steel. Ivory. And one she very much suspected was pure gold. _That's one way to spend money_, she thought as she touched the shiny surface, feeling quite honored to be one of the few people, she assumed, to be let in to what was clearly a very private part of Snape's life.

She went over to a copper cauldron that was situated in a corner, it's content perfectly still, as if frozen. "What's this?" she asked curiously, turning her attention to Snape, who had been following her moves silently.

"It's a different try on the Polyjuice Potion. It's under a stasis spell. I won't know if it works properly for another fortnight." He gestured towards a brass cauldron beside it. "That's just a regular headache potion, it needs another stir in two days and then it should be good to go."

He then nodded towards a third cauldron, the smallest of the three. It was empty, except for a brownish, sticky substance at the bottom. "And _that._" He scowled. "Is a failed attempt at a cure for permanent memory-loss."

Hermione regarded the cauldrons in silence, thinking what a treat it would be to work side by side with a man like Snape. Indulging in research, experimenting and having the luxury of picking his brain while doing it.

Her current professors were some of the most skilled academics in the wizarding world, but they were also comfortable and lazy in many ways.

"I have a lot of time on my hands," Snape said, almost apologetically, to no one in particular.

She glanced over to where he was standing and opened her mouth to ask what on earth had caused the brew to react so violently, when she suddenly noticed a beautiful, old Pensieve, almost hidden behind a chest of some sort, in a corner. Even from her place by the cauldrons she could tell by the Saxon runes carved into its body, that it was one of a kind.

Following her gaze, Snape half smiled and said, "That's Dumbledore's old Pensieve. I figured he wouldn't mind."

Hermione's mouth fell open. "You stole this from Hogwarts?" she asked, horrified.

"It's all a matter of interpretation, isn't it?" Snape replied, amused at her reaction. "But let's not get into that. I'm afraid we wouldn't have time to do anything else."

He walked over to her, a smirk forming on his lips as he reached out and gently removed a stray curl from her face, tucking it behind her ear. She gave no resistance when he put both his arms around her, his face now so close to hers that the tips of their noses almost touched.

Even in the dim light she could see a number of emotions unveiling in his black eyes. Lust. Curiosity. Passion. But also a hint of something else. Something she couldn't quite decipher. She felt herself hold her breath as he reached up and brushed her cheek with his thumb, before slowly leaning in, his lips seeking hers.

It was a soft kiss. Gentle. Tentative. Not at all what she had expected. Suddenly a distinct fluttery feeling detonated in her chest. And in her head a full-on war erupted, where her mind desperately kept telling her body to react a little less to his voice, and his hands, and his mouth. Her body, however, seemed to ignore these pathetic little attempts, pointing out, and rather rudely at that, that they had passed the point of no return.

Snape broke away, pulling back slightly to look her in the eyes. Not a single word transpired between them, and yet it seemed like no words were needed. He took her hand, stroking it with his thumb and nodded towards a door at the far end of the room.

* * *

Snape sat down at the end of a double bed, in the small bedroom that was adjacent to the potions lab, watching as Hermione walked over to a stray bookshelf that had been squeezed in next to an old leather armchair. She reached out and glided her finger softly over the book covers, reading the titles, but not taking any of them in. She was glad to get a short reprieve. She felt completely and thoroughly confused. All she knew for certain was that _this_ was _not_ how she was supposed to feel.

"Are you involved with her?" she asked quietly, her back still turned against him.

"With whom?" Snape said, a genuine tone of surprise in his voice.

Hermione turned around, immediately noticing how at least a dozen floating candles had sneaked their way into the bedroom, and were now hovering innocently around the bed. She narrowed her eyes at Snape, who, like a true gentleman, pretended not to notice the shift in lighting (and its blunt insinuations) and merely raised an eyebrow at her.

"Priscilla," Hermione finally said and made an involuntary grimace. "It wouldn't feel right ... to do this, if you were ... you know, with someone else."

"Contrary to your situation with Mr Weasley, you mean?" he said and leaned back on one elbow.

"Me and Ron made this decision together," she bit back.

"How do you know that I haven't struck a similar deal with her?" Snape asked.

Hermione pursed her lips. "You're avoiding my question."

"We have a history ..." he replied unenthusiastically. "A very brief one," he added when she shot him a disbelieving stare.

"_Before_ or _after_ she became your assistant?"

"Before."

"How convenient," she said tartly and folded her arms over her chest.

Snape tilted his head to the side. "Hermione."

"Yes?"

He held out his hand. "Come here."

She unfolded her arms and hesitantly went over to where he was sitting. When she was within arm lengths reach, he took her hand in his, stood up, and pulled her close to him.

_This is surreal, _she thought distractedly, as Snape caressed her cheek and then bent his head down, planting little kisses in the hollow of her neck.

She closed her eyes, willing herself to relax. _What is he doing? Oh. That actually feels kind of ... kind of nice ... Well. It's not like I haven't been with other men before. Just calm down and get on with it._

Snape reached around to the zipper of her dress, slowly undoing it. With one movement he slipped the silky material off her shoulders and watched as it slithered its way down to the floor.

And there she was. Practically naked.

_Oh my God!_

"Who's Augustus Tirden?" she blurted out.

He kissed her shoulder, his mouth tracing lightly down her arm, the sensation sending a strange shiver down her spine. "What's with all the questions?" he smirked, a smirk she could feel on her bare skin.

"I just-just wonder who he is," she said, letting out a shaky breath.

"A business associate. Someone I trust." Snape softly pulled her down on the bed with him. "I know it wasn't specified in the contract, but I really need you to focus on the task at hand now," he said smilingly, his low, rumbling baritone making her heart skip a beat.

And then she caved, and gave in to his touch.

* * *

_Where is my wand? _Hermione thought groggily as she clumsily jerked out the drawer to the nightstand beside the bed. She felt disoriented and drowsy. And naked. _Why am I naked! _she thought confusedly, while she rummaged around in the drawer. She heaved herself up on her elbows to get a better angle, but all she could feel was crumpled up papers, a couple of quills and a book of some sort.

_What the heck? I always keep my wand in—_

And then she remembered. She wasn't at the Burrow. And there was a perfectly good explanation for her nakedness. She slumped back on the pillows and stared into the darkness. She could feel the warmth radiating from the sleeping man beside her. The not-her-husband-man beside her.

Ever since the war, she had woken up practically every night in different stages of panic, frantically looking for her wand. Tonight had been no different. She sighed and turned over to close the drawer, when something suddenly caught her eye. In the far back, hidden behind the crumpled papers, she saw something glimmering. She reached in and pulled out the object, which turned out to be a small glass vial. Hermione held it up to her face, mesmerized by the silver-white contents that was swirling inside.

_That's a really strange place to keep something like this,_ she mused, carefully putting it back in the drawer, exactly in the spot where she had found it.

Silently, she got up, and felt her way across the room to a chair by the door where she had put her dress and her wand the night before. She quickly lit a couple of the candles, transformed the dress into a black shirt and pants, and then cast a tempus charm. _0545._

_I really need to get home_, she thought apprehensively.

She bit her lip and looked over at Severus Snape's sleeping form. He looked peaceful. At ease. She turned to open the door, cast a last glance over her shoulder and was just about to sneak out when his eyes fluttered open.

"I take it you're not staying for breakfast then?" he asked, his voice raspy from sleep.

"No." She shook her head slowly. "I better go."

* * *

Severus Snape blinked a couple of times, swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. The first thing he noticed was that her perfume still lingered in the room. He reached out and touched the side of the bed where she had slept. It was still warm.

Sighing deeply, he put his head in his hands and sat completely still.

After a long while, he finally straightened up and pulled out his wand from underneath his pillow, where he always kept it during the nights. He pointed the tip of it to his temple, closed his eyes, and withdrew a long, silvery, hair-like wisp. He stood up, swayed slightly on the spot, and then walked around to the other side of the bed, yanked the drawer to the nightstand open, pulled out the small vial and jerkily flicked the glimmering content into it.

* * *

It was almost 6 o'clock when Hermione quietly slipped inside the doors of the Burrow. She took off her shoes and tip-toed across the floor towards the stairs, so as not to wake anyone. The last thing she wanted was a Weasley-inquisition and getting peppered with questions she knew she couldn't answer. She had almost made it when somebody cleared a throat in the direction of the living room. She could tell right away that it was Ron. She pinched the bridge of her nose, steeled herself and walked in to him.

It was a dismal scene meeting her. Ron, sitting on the floor, clutching a pillow. His eyes red, his clothes disheveled. It was painfully clear that he had stayed up all night, waiting for her to return. When he locked eyes with her, his anger was so tangible, so vivid, it surprised her.

"Well?" he said through clenched teeth.

"Well, what?" Hermione replied, knowing full well that he would lash out at her, no matter what she said.

"You bloody well know what!" Ron hissed, pushing himself off the floor and standing up.

"Don't do this, Ron," she said, hating that she had to plead with him. "Please."

"I have the right to know!" he said, raising his voice slightly. "Was he good? Huh?"

"What do you want me to say? No? Would you believe me either way?" Hermione replied, her hands shaking. She had never seen him like this before. It unnerved her.

Ron just stared at her, like she had gone completely insane. "So he was good? Is that what you're saying?"

"It was _just_ sex, Ron." She reached out and touched his arm, but he jerked away as though he'd been burned.

"Just tell me!" he yelled.

"Tell you _what_? That he was a stallion and that we were at it all night? Is that what you want?" she replied angrily.

"No!" Ron slammed his fist into the wall furiously. "Just bloody tell me if it was good!"

"Hey!" A muffled voice called out from upstairs. "Some people are trying to sleep!"

"Fine," Hermione finally whispered, her eyes brimming with tears. "Yes. Yes it was."

"I knew this was a mistake! I knew this would happen!" he hissed. "I bet you wanted this all along!"

Hermione stared at her husband in disbelief, not wanting to believe what she had just heard; that he would be capable of saying something like that. "What are you talking about? I did this for _us_, for _you!_"

Suddenly all the tears that she had been holding back burst and came streaming down her face.

"Do you even know if we got the money?" Ron spat, ignoring her quiet sobs.

"When was I supposed to check, Ron?" Hermione said thickly. "Was I supposed to pop into Gringotts on my way back here?"

He grabbed her arm. "Then let's go. Right now."

"What? No, I'm really tired, I just want to go to—" She quieted down when she realized what she had said. Ron only glared at her. "I didn't mean it like that," she said defeatedly.

"I know exactly what you meant," he sneered. "We're going. Get your coat."

* * *

The goblin peered down on them from his place behind the counter. "How can I help you today, Mr Weasley?" he asked loftily.

"Well, we would like to see our vault," Ron replied, holding out a ragged old key. "Not to make a withdrawal or anything. Just to ... see it."

The goblin gave him an odd look. "Certainly." He held out a gnarled hand, gingerly took the key and looked at it for a while.

"Ah, yes," he said quietly. "We have changed the location for this particular vault, to a place with more extensive security."

The goblin tapped the key lightly to the counter.

"As of last night at exactly 02:47, the content changed from _no_ to _reasonable_ value. I remember this because it was a very odd time to make a money transfer. Very odd indeed ..." he muttered to himself.

Hermione quickly turned her head to hide the sudden rosiness that was spreading across her cheeks.

"Ron," she whispered. "I think we can take his word for it ... There's no need for us to actually go down there."

"Forget it," Ron replied testily as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I want to see it with my own eyes."

The ride down to their new vault was much longer than it had ever been before. The three of them soared through the twisting maze of passages, deep beneath the surface of the earth, for what seemed like forever until the cart suddenly came to a halt. The goblin easily jumped out, and walked up to a heavy iron-clad door, with torches lit on either side of it.

Hermione and Ron cautiously climbed after, watching as the goblin muttered something under his breath, then pressed a finger against the door before finally using the key. A sudden creak rang out through the passageway and the door swung open, revealing stacks and stacks of galleons in neat rows.

The goblin turned around and looked at the couple. "Is everything in order?" he asked, gesturing towards their newfound fortune.

"Yes," Hermione said shakily. "So it seems."


	5. Chapter 5 - the Buyer

**Chapter 5 - the Buyer **

"What do you mean _sold?_" Hermione stared at the receptionist in pure disbelief. She felt her heart beating painfully against her ribcage; the room suddenly spinning. "But that's not possible," she said weakly. "Check again."

The young woman, seemingly in her late teens and fresh out of school judging by her skittishness, nervously scanned the paper in front of her, more closely this time. Hermione vaguely remembered her from Hogwarts; a scrawny little girl with pigtails and a shrill laughter. A Slytherin, if she wasn't mistaken. Her name-tag said Katie Bright, but Hermione would dispute that without a moment's hesitation.

"I'm-I'm sorry, but it says right here that it's off the market," Bright stammered.

It was a crisp and cold Monday morning, and Hermione and Ron had been waiting outside _Here, There and Beyond, _the only real estate agency specializing in wizarding housing in this particular part of Britain, for a good thirty minutes before they had been let in.

The agency, situated in Diagon Alley, was jammed in between Ollivander's wand shop and Madam Malkin's Robes for all Occasions, and had a reputation for being highly flexible with it's opening hours and highly inflexible when it came to customer service. _The side-effect of complete monopoly_, Hermione thought, white hot anger bubbling in the pit of her stomach.

She slammed down her purse on the desk, causing Katie Bright to jump in her seat and a stack of business cards to slide off the edge, fluttering about in the air and scattering across the floor.

"Then I want to speak to your manager," Hermione snapped. "Right now."

The younger woman blanched visibly. "Yes, yes, of course," she said, immediately picking up her wand, sending off a flickering, robin-shaped patronus in the direction of a back room.

She then hurried around her desk and started gathering the cards up off the floor, all the while throwing anxious glances at her two costumers. Her two extremely disgruntled customers.

"Excuse me, sir, I'm very sorry," she said hesitantly. "But I-I think you have one under your shoe, there." Bright pointed to where Ron was standing. He gave her a surprised look and a crooked smile. "No worries, love," he said and made to bend down and retrieve it.

Hermione rolled her eyes and snatched up the stray card from under Ron's foot before he even had time to reach for it, scoffing as she read it. _"We make magic happen - let us help you find your next dream home!" _

_What an utter load of rubbish, _she thought and flicked it onto the desk.

After a couple of minutes they heard the clinking of cutlery and a chair that scraped across the floor. Shortly thereafter, a colossal man, in a yellow tent-like shirt and grey trousers held up by suspenders, waddled towards them, his breathing so strained it sounded like a broken leaf blower. He shot them a forced smile, his thin lips almost completely hidden beneath a bushy mustache that curled to the sides.

Hermione temporarily forgot her anger at the sight of the unreasonably fat man, squinting at the grey hairs on his upper lip. _Is that ... bread crumbs? And ketchup? _

"Are you in charge of this pathetic agency?" Hermione asked crisply, snapping back to reality.

"I am the _owner_, madam," the man said said, puffing his chest up. "Chuckard Livingston." He held out a fleshy hand, which Hermione shook reluctantly.

"I hear there's been some sort of misunderstanding," he drawled. "Why don't we all step into my humble office?"

Livingston ushered them into a small room that smelled of old food and stale sweat, and Hermione immediately felt like washing her hands. She carefully sat down on a brown folding chair, a grimace flitting across her features as she noticed a chewed up gum stuck to one of its legs.

Ron remained standing at the back, leaning against the far wall, his arms crossed over his chest.

With a grunt, Livingston folded himself into a tiny office chair that nearly gave in to the weight, put on a pair of glasses and leafed through the papers his receptionist had given him, leaving greasy fingerprints on each page.

"Well, I don't know what to tell you good folks," he said after a while. "This particular house has been sold, I'm afraid." He removed his glasses and threw them indifferently on the desk.

"That's absolutely preposterous," Hermione hissed. "You're incompetent co-worker explicitly said that he would hold it for us for _two weeks._" She spread her arms in frustration. "It hasn't even been two bloody _days_!"

"Calm down, love," Ron said and put a sweaty hand on her shoulder, squeezing it lightly.

"Don't tell me to—" she whipped her head around. "What was his name? That good-for-nothing, idiotic agent we talked to, that _promised_ to help us out?"

Ron shook his head. "I have no idea, I can't remember. Phil? Steve? I dunno."

"Name-calling won't get you anywhere, missy," Livingston cut in, making a tsking sound. "Besides, I have a lot of agents."

Hermione turned to the repulsive man behind the desk. "Yeah, and I bet a lot of them could fit that description," she retorted. "Who did you sell it to then?" She glared at him. "Who?" she repeated.

"Can't tell you." Livingston laced his sausage-fingers together, letting them rest on his stomach. "That's privileged information," he added smugly.

"What I can do, though—" He shot Hermione a sleazy grin. "Because of my awfully compassionate and kind personality, is help you find another place. I actually have some—" He reached down and pulled out some brochures from a drawer. "Really nice prospects right in—"

"Not in this lifetime," Hermione cut off angrily, darting from her chair. She couldn't get out of there fast enough. "Let's go, Ron."

* * *

They walked in silence down the narrow, cobbled street that led up to Gringotts. Ron was due at work in ten minutes, giving them very little time to talk about what had just unfolded. But the dense quiet and uneasiness that had settled between them seemed unbreakable, following them like a ghost all the way to the marble steps of the bank.

Hermione swallowed, and then swallowed again, as she desperately tried to fight back the tears. She glanced at Ron, watching him greet one of the security guards at the entrance with a nod.

He turned to walk up the stairs, but stopped mid-step, giving her a strained smile. "I'll see you tonight, alright?"

"Wait, just-just wait a second." Hermione put a hand on his arm. "We're not even going to talk about this?" she asked disbelievingly.

He gave her a pained look. "I don't have time, 'Mione. Besides, there isn't very much to talk about, is there?"

Hermione's head reeled, she tried to think logically, tried to focus on a way, any way, out of this mess, but she knew she was grasping at straws.

"Hang on," she said suddenly. "Who do we know in the real estate business? I mean, if we could get the name of the buyer somehow, that would at least give us a chance to explain," she continued hurriedly.

"I think we should just let it go." Ron looked up at the sky. "You're being a bit hysterical, to be honest."

"No, I'm _not_, I'm just trying to find a solution!" she said exasperatedly. "Why would you even say something like that? After everything—"

"I don't know why you're getting yourself so worked up over this," he cut off irritably. "There's plenty of other houses out there!"

"_Because, _Ronald—" she started, but stopped when she saw the expression on his face.

He looked exhausted. Almost as exhausted as she felt. She was so tired of the constant bickering; the arguments that never seemed to end, only piling on top of each other in an unresolved heap.

She searched his face, but could see nothing but impatience and annoyance in his eyes. They were drifting apart. She could feel it. And she knew he felt it too. An ice cold sensation surged like a swarm of grasshoppers through her body, consuming her, making it hard for her to breathe.

She shook her head. _No. We're supposed to be stronger than this. _

"Because," she said as gentle as she could."_That_ was our house," she emphasized, even though the words tasted strange and off in her mouth.

"I just—" Ron looked away, kicking at a stray pebble. "Whatever. Fine," he sighed. "I suppose you could talk to Hannah Abbott, you know, from Hogwarts. She was in the DA. Hufflepuff-girl."

Hermione couldn't help but roll her eyes. "I know who she is, Ron," she said quietly.

"Yeah, well, she works at the Ministry now, in the Department for Building and Housing Regulations. Maybe she knows something."

"That's actually a really good idea," she said thoughtfully, casting a glance at him. "How do you know this?"

Ron shrugged. "Neville came by the bank last week. Said he was getting a loan for a house. Apparently, he and Hannah are an item these days. Told me they were getting engaged and everything."

"Oh, but that's great," Hermione said, a bit surprised. She always thought that Neville would end up with Luna Lovegood, one way or the other.

Ron ran a hand distractedly through his hair. "Yeah. He looked really happy about it."

They both quieted down.

"Look—"

"Ron—"

"You go first," Ron said, making a little gesture towards her.

"I just want to make sure that I've done everything I can before I let this go," she said, biting her lip.

"And I understand that, but it's not just ... Sometimes it's like—" He trailed off. "You can't always get what you want, Mione," he said finally.

"I can at least try, can't I?" she replied. "Maybe I can persuade whoever bought the house to sell it to us instead."

"Yeah. Maybe," Ron said, without any real conviction. "Look, I've really got to go." He shifted his feet. "I'll see you when I get off," he mumbled, then turned and left.

It wasn't until much later, when she stood in the telephone booth outside the Ministry, ready to call the number, that she realized that she hadn't kissed him goodbye.

* * *

As it turned out, coaxing Hannah Abbott into helping her wasn't nearly as easy as Hermione had hoped it would be. She had pleaded with her, almost begging her to see her side of the story, and used every trick in the book to try to convince her that revealing the buyer to an outsider wasn't actually _breaking_ any rules but merely _bending_ them a tiny bit.

Hannah had not been impressed.

So Hermione had tried to make her see the logical side of things. How unfairly she and Ron had been treated by _Here, There and Beyond, _and how absolutely dreadful it would be if they would be forced to settle this in court now that this perfect solution was within their grasp.

Hannah hadn't bought that either.

Hermione had then, in a third and desperate attempt, opened her mouth to remind her of their time together in Dumbledore's Army, and all the sacrifices _she_ had done for _her _(which was a bit of a stretch, really, but Hermione was at the end of her rope), when Hannah suddenly, as if by some miracle, had glanced at her watch and given up.

Hermione suspected that her abrupt surrender had very little to do with Hermione's negotiation skills and quite a lot to do with Hannah wanting her out of the office.

"If anyone finds out about this—" Hannah said through gritted teeth as they walked down a winding staircase leading to the Ministry's archive. "I'll lose my job. Do you understand?"

"Of course," Hermione said lowly. "But I want you to know that I really, really appreciate it, you don't know how much." They stopped in front of a large wooden door. "And I'm obviously not going to tell anyone," she added.

"You better not," Hannah muttered as she pulled out a set of keys and unlocked it with a loud click.

The archive was enormous, but Hannah seemed to know exactly where they were going. "Come on," she said. "It should be in section 5C."

Scanning the shelves swiftly, she suddenly stopped, pulled out a file and flipped it open. "Here we go," she said, reading the content quietly. Suddenly her eyes widened. "Oh," she whispered. "This is, well, I didn't think—"

"God, just tell me," Hermione interrupted, a dreadful feeling spreading somewhere in the pit of her stomach.

Hannah shot her an annoyed look.

"Sorry." Hermione held up both her hands. "What I meant to say was: Could you _please_ tell me."

"Well," Hannah said, furrowing her brows. "It says that the property has been purchased by Mr Severus Snape."

* * *

It was late when Hermione finally got back to the Burrow. The rest of the Weasleys had just finished eating their dinner and sat around the table, enjoying the last scraps of dessert.

Molly immediately sprang to her feet when Hermione appeared in the doorway, waving warily to the familiar faces.

"Hermione, sweetheart, I've saved plenty of food for you," she said, pulling out a plate, loaded with chicken and mashed potatoes, from the oven. "Sit down, sit down."

Hermione slid into the chair next to her husband, who merely gave her a curt nod in acknowledgement. Arthur and George smiled awkwardly, the frosty atmosphere between the couple not lost on them.

Suddenly Ron shook a piece of paper in front of her. "Did you know about this?" he bit out.

Molly gave her youngest son a disapproving look as she sat down at the end of the table. "Don't be ridiculous, Ronald. Why would Hermione know anything about that?"

"What is it?" Hermione asked in alarm, taking the parchment from him.

Arthur cleared his throat. "It seems like Snape wants back in the Order."

Hermione felt her breath hitch, her fork slipping from her grasp, landing on her plate with a loud clatter, splattering potatoes and beans all over her shirt.

"Oh, for the love of God," she groaned, ignoring the stains. _This day can't possibly get any worse. _

"Yes, well, why don't you read it for yourself," Arthur said, giving her an odd look.

Hermione quickly turned her attention to the letter in her hand.

* * *

_Dear Weasley family, _

_I hope this finds you well, _

_I'm happy to announce that an old friend is rejoining our ranks. The location of our next meeting, which will take place on June 20th, will therefore be temporarily moved to the home of Severus Snape, at Spinner's End. _

_Please contact me for further information._

_Yours truly,_

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Head of the Order of the Phoenix_

_Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

* * *

Hermione slowly put down the missive, casting a sideways glance at Ron.

After the war, the few remaining members of the Order had continued to meet regularly. Not only to ensure that there still existed some sort of semi-organized defense against rouge Death Eaters and their ilk, but also to talk about the past and how it still affected them and their everyday life. Their shared, however awful, experiences had brought them all closer, and a natural bond had formed between them. One they weren't likely to break.

"It just doesn't make any sense," George said thoughtfully, distractedly drumming his fingers against the table. "He's been gone so long. Why now?"

Arthur shook his head. "I haven't got a clue. But we'll know soon enough, I suppose."


	6. Chapter 6 - the Vial

**Chapter 6 - the Vial**

It was an awkward group of people occupying the cramped sitting room belonging to Severus Snape. Summer had, quite surprisingly and uncharacteristically, decided to make a fierce and intense visit, making the room almost unbearably stuffy; the sticky, thick air adding an extra pinch of tension to the already prickly atmosphere.

A cluster of redheads, including Percy Weasley, his wife Audrey, Bill Weasley, Fleur Delacour, and Charlie, who was back in England for the weekend, stood in a tight little group in a corner close to the kitchen.

Fleur kept dabbing her upper lip with a napkin, desperately fighting to keep the sweat beads at bay, while Kingsley Shacklebolt, dressed extravagantly in purple, was leaning miserably against the opposite wall, trying to catch pathetically small wisps of air coming from a tiny window.

Neville Longbottom, even more nervous than usual and clearly uncomfortable with being in such close proximity to Snape, had resorted to hiding his gangly frame behind a bookshelf. On a hardback chair next to him sat Harry, doing his best to soothe a restless and unhappy baby James.

Minerva McGonagall, perched in one of Snape's armchairs in the middle of the room, had her nose buried in a black leather-bound notebook, lost in thought. Every now and then she would break the silence by huffing irritably, as her glasses slid down her nose, forcing her to push them back up.

Hermione, who had slumped back in the armchair next to McGonagall, chanced a glance at Snape. He was wearing black robes, very similar to his old teaching gear, and looked every bit the grouchy Potions professor he had once been. Standing next to him, and very closely at that, was, to Hermione's great dismay, Priscilla Scott. While Hermione had yanked her sweater off as soon as she had set foot inside Snape's home, Priscilla seemed completely unaffected by the heat.

_That settles it_, Hermione thought bitterly, feeling like she was about to melt into a puddle._ There's no way that woman can be a part of the human race. Maybe she's some sort of robot? Or half-human. A Veela perhaps._ She grimaced, her eyes darting to Fleur. _Maybe not. More like a Siren. Using her cool exterior to lure innocent men into danger, causing them to crash at her feet and—_

"Right," McGonagall said tartly as she adjusted her glasses for the umpteenth time. "I suppose we should get started. I know you're all wondering why we are here." She folded her hands in her lap. "Severus has requested to be admitted into the Order, and I have given him my consent. That's all I will say on the matter. As for his lady-friend—"

"Priscilla," Priscilla piped in.

"Priscilla," McGonagall repeated, pursing her lips. "She's joining us today, as well as Augustus Tirden, the Chief of Staff of the Aurory Academy. He's running late, I'm afraid, but will be here shortly."

Ron started to protest, but McGonagall immediately quelled him with a sharp look. "Now ..." she began. "To the next order of business—" She stopped abruptly and looked around the room. "This is ridiculous," she muttered, slamming her notebook shut, turning towards their host.

"Severus," she said briskly. "Do you by any chance own a tent?"

Snape quirked an eyebrow at his former colleague. "A tent?"

"Yes," McGonagall said, whipping off her glasses, wiping them with a tartan handkerchief. "A _tent,_" she emphasized. "To raise in the backyard. As I don't see how anyone of us will survive in this furnace long enough to actually get anything done."

Snape scoffed. "I apologize if my accommodation isn't spacious enough," he drawled. "I didn't expect there to be a myriad of Weasleys." He glared at Ron in disapproval. "But I do, as a matter of fact," he added.

"Splendid," McGonagall said and rose. "Arthur, Ron and Harry, would you be so kind as to help Severus with the assembling?"

"Yes, yes, absolutely," Arthur replied, looking relieved at the thought of escaping the claustrophobic room. "Come on, boys," he said and quickly slipped out the back door, with Ron and Harry following close behind.

"Molly, if you would start on the refreshments and—" McGonagall turned to the oldest Weasley siblings, "Bill, Charlie, Percy. I need you to help Kingsley and me with the protection and invisibility wards, please."

"The rest of you," she said, eyeing the remaining members of the Order sternly, George in particular. "Make yourself useful."

* * *

"Out of the way, out of the way," sang Molly as she came scurrying across the lawn, levitating a couple of chairs, a cake and four pitchers of lemonade in front of her.

Ginny and Hermione had retreated to a shadowy spot underneath a couple of trees, watching as Kingsley transfigured an old hammock into a long table, fitting it neatly inside the tent, while Molly was bustling in and out of the house, producing one mouthwatering dish after another.

Hermione looked down on the drink in her hand, carefully stirring it with the straw. She and Ron had been fighting all morning and were barely on speaking terms. She had finally told him about Snape, and how he had turned out to be the mysterious buyer. If it had been up to her, she would have just let it go, and never even mentioned it. But, knowing Snape, the subject would've snuck it's way onto the Order-meeting's agenda one way or the other, and she didn't want Ron to hear it from anyone else but her.

Ron had tried to stay calm at first, but his forced indifference only lasted for about thirty seconds before his face contorted into a sneer. "So, when are you moving in?" he had asked her, adding "Don't expect me to help you pack," as a final blow.

A small part of her had hoped for a little understanding. Maybe even some consolation. But it was as if they were speaking completely different languages these days; neither one ready or willing to forgive and forget. She sighed.

"Are you okay?" Ginny asked, her voice full of concern.

"I'm fine," Hermione lied. "Just a little hot."

Ginny scoffed. "Tell me about it."

Hermione gazed out the garden, her eyes immediately landing on Priscilla and Snape. They were putting up little lanterns around the tent, and she could just make out how Priscilla whispered something in Snape's ear, causing him to smirk. A sudden jolt of jealousy hit her.

"Look at her," she said derisively, unable to keep quiet.

"Who?" said Ginny, who was busy inhaling a mug of butterbeer. "Who are we looking at?" she repeated, wiping her mouth on her sleeve.

"Priscilla." Hermione wrinkled her nose. "I mean, really. Look at her, walking around in her little outfit. Being all ... coordinated. Her little purse matching her earrings and whatnot."

"Yes." Ginny shot Hermione an amused look. "Awful behavior, that matching business. Borderline offensive, even."

"To say the least," Hermione muttered.

"Oh, oh," Ginny said suddenly, dropping her voice dramatically. "Incoming husband at one o'clock."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Thanks, Gin. I can see him quite clearly."

"Hey, girls," Ron said casually, joining them in the shadows. "Pitching in, are we?" he asked teasingly, nudging Ginny in the side.

"Shut up," Ginny replied, slapping him on the shoulder.

"Ow!" Ron said, faking a hurt look before turning to Hermione. He searched her face for a second, waiting for her to say something.

When she didn't, he reached out for her hand.

"'Mione," he began, but stopped abruptly when he noticed Augustus Tirden come strolling out the back door, in a black t-shirt and jeans. It was obvious that he hadn't shaved for a couple of days, his stubble matching his grey hair.

"What is it?" Ginny asked, following his gaze.

Ron nodded stiffly at Tirden as he walked by, navigating towards Priscilla and Snape.

"That guy—" He paused, scowling. "Is the sodding wanker that kicked me out of the Aurory. What the hell is he doing here?"

"He probably wants to join the Order," Hermione replied thoughtfully. "I mean, he's Snape's business associate, _and _he has a high position at the Ministry. It's rather strange that he isn't a member already, actually."

"Trust you to know," Ron sneered. "You're probably getting first hand information straight from the greasy git."

"Don't be an asshole, Ron," Ginny cut in, shooting her brother a vicious glare.

"I'm not!"

"Yes, you are," Hermione replied tiredly. "And you have been, continuously, these last couple of weeks."

The tips of Ron's ears instantly turned a bright shade of red.

"If I were you I would worry about it becoming a permanent trait," Hermione bit out, before he had a chance to retort.

She handed Ginny her empty glass. "I'm going over there," she said, nodding towards Snape.

"Might as well get this over with," she muttered to herself.

She had been mulling over this coming conversation for the last few days. Her praised intelligence and brains, however, had been to no help at all, making all of her fictive dialogues with Snape end the same way. With him, practically begging for forgiveness, giving her the keys to the house without so much as a whiff of resistance.

Somehow she didn't see that actually happening.

She took a deep breath. She would just have to wing it.

All too soon she was standing next to him, clearing her throat to get his attention. He turned to her, cocking an eyebrow in surprise.

"Severus," she said, pinning him down with what she hoped was an intimidating stare. "A word."

"Of course," he said, following her to the edge of garden, away from prying eyes.

"Severus?" Hermione heard Priscilla say to Tirden, her high-pitched voice carrying over to where she and Snape were standing, disdain dripping from every word. "She calls him _Severus_ now?"

Snape looked down his nose at her curiously. "What can I—"

"Don't," Hermione cut off, folding her arms across her chest. "You bloody well know _what_!" she hissed.

"I'm afraid not, Hermione," he purred innocently. "Why don't you enlighten me?"

"Fine," she said through gritted teeth. "You stole my house. Right under my nose. Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

"Ah," he put a finger to his lips thoughtfully. "Well, it was hardly _your_ house to begin with."

She made a frustrated sound and spread her arms. "You didn't even know it existed before I told you about it! You don't even _need_ a house, you _have_ a house, it's right _there_, in case you have forgotten." She pointed angrily towards the door leading out to the garden.

Snape could hardly contain his mirth, making Hermione's inside boil with white hot anger.

"Well, now that you mention it ... I've discovered that I find this house lacking ... in certain areas," he replied, examining a smudge of ink on one of his fingertips.

She stared at him, not being able to decide whether she wanted to tear the smugness off his face with her bare hands or curl up into a ball and cry. "What? Are you—"

"But," he interrupted. "If you _really_ want Snake Cottage—"

Hermione's eyebrows shot up, almost touching her hairline. "That's what it's called?" she asked skeptically.

"Do you like it?" asked Snape. "I just made it up," he smirked.

"Oh lord." Hermione unconsciously started rubbing her temples and turned to leave. "You know what? I can't do this, I'm just going to—"

In one quick move, Snape smoothly blocked her way, effectively stopping her from escaping.

"I can tell you're quite desperate," he said urgently. "So I'm willing to sell it to you."

"You are?" Hermione replied, feeling the anger subsiding and a tiny spark of hope igniting somewhere in her chest.

"Yes," he said. "But the price has gone up a bit I'm afraid."

Hermione felt her shoulders slump, the rest of her body deflate. "How much is a bit?" she asked suspiciously.

Snape quirked his lips. "I think two million galleons is a fair price."

"Fair?" she shrieked, but immediately quieted down when a couple of heads turned their way, concerned expressions on their faces.

She dropped her voice to a mere whisper. "You deceitful, loathsome, pathetic—"

"Careful," said Snape warningly, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I don't know what you're trying to do," she hissed, pointing a finger in his face. "But it is _not_ working!"

* * *

Hermione sat at the end of the long table, as far away from Snape as humanly possible. She had Arthur on one side and Ginny on the other, both of them enthusiastically retelling a story from last summer, when the whole family had visited France, and apparently bumped into the French equivalent to the Minister for Magic.

"Don't look so bored, Kingsley!" Arthur called out across the table, a twinkle in his eye. "I know you've met him a hundred times!" He leaned over to Ginny. "Do you think I'm easily impressed, love?"

Hermione smiled. It would have been quite cosy. The quiet summer evening. The faint light coming from the lanterns. Cherry trees blossoming. Friends and family enjoying themselves.

But then there was Snape.

Hermione had spent the better part of the meeting shooting glares at the man, and when Ron caught her glaring at Snape, he glared at her, and when he didn't glare at her, he glared at Tirden. Suffice to say, if looks could kill, these glares would have been bottled up and used in warfare.

A couple of hours later, McGonagall clapped her hands together, announcing that it was time to wrap it up. After a quick disassembling of the tent, and a vast amount of doggy bags distributed, the group dispersed.

Hermione and Ron were among the last ones to leave, quietly walking side by side across the lawn towards the house, when Augustus Tirden suddenly approached them.

"Hey, Ron," he smiled, making Ron freeze in his tracks. "It's good to see you again. It's been a while."

"Yeah, well, as I recall it, you had something to do with that," Ron grumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Tirden gave him a sympathetic look. "And as I recall it—" He paused to put a hand on Ron's shoulder, his warm green eyes meeting Ron's steely blue. "I told you that you were welcome back as soon as you enrolled in anger management class. It's not too late, you know."

Ron broke his gaze, muttering something under his breath.

"Gus!" Priscilla called out from inside the house. "Are you coming?"

"Yeah, I'll be right there!" he answered, before turning back to Ron. "Take care, alright?" he said and patted him on the shoulder before he walked off.

Hermione stared at his retreating form and then back to Ron, flabbergasted at what she had just heard.

"You never told me _any_ of this, Ron!" she said accusingly. "You said there were no chance, _no chance_, for you to ever get back in! Have you been lying to me this whole time?"

"Just forget about it," Ron replied angrily and resumed walking.

Hermione stopped short. "No, I don't think I will," she said. "Why don't you tell me what's going on?"

"I'm leaving," he said over his shoulder. "You do what you want." And then he disappeared into the house.

Hermione sighed. She had spent the last couple of weeks chasing after him, trying to reason with him, begging him for reconciliation. She glanced down at her wedding ring. It had to stop. She was too tired, too confused, and frankly, too fed up.

She stayed like that for a couple of minutes, rooted to the spot, looking up at the sky before slowly walking in as well. She peered around the sitting room, craned her neck to see the hallway, but there was no sign of Ron anywhere, which meant that he had already left. She shook her head, disappointment washing over her.

In the corner of her eye she saw her sweater, thrown over the arm of one of the chairs, and walked over to fetch it before leaving. Just as she reached out to pick it up she noticed that the secret bookshelf, the one leading down to Snape's lab, was ajar. As she moved closer she distinctly heard muffled sounds, coming from downstairs. Her curiosity now piqued, she opened the door, just enough to poke her head in. She could see light coming from the bedroom, instantly recognizing the sounds emanating from it.

Somebody was definitely kissing. And rather animatedly at that. She felt her stomach drop. Why would Snape sneak down here, knowing that people were still in his house, leaving the door open for anyone to walk in on him?

A second later, Hermione found herself tiptoeing down the stairs, darkness surrounding her.

"_Lumos_," she whispered, holding her wand in front of her. She cautiously moved across the floor, slightly nauseous at the intensified smacking noises. _This was a bad idea, _she thought. _Maybe the worst idea you've had in a long time. _

Her bravery faltered as she closed in on the bedroom door. She quickly turned around, deciding that whatever was going on, she didn't need to know. Suddenly the kissing stopped, and she heard a sharp rustle of fabric. Panicking, Hermione whispered, "_Nox_," and threw herself on the floor, crawling away from the door, darting towards the workbenches in the middle of the room.

"We need to get back," Priscilla's voice rang out. "People will come looking for us."

"I don't care," said a hoarse male voice, belonging to Augustus Tirden.

"Come on," Priscilla said impatiently. "Let's finish this at my place."

From her spot behind the benches, Hermione could clearly hear the couple hurriedly climbing the stairs, bustling out the lab.

She felt her heart thumping and exhaled quietly, slowly getting to her feet, more than ready to get out of there.

But as she grabbed the railing, about to climb the first step, she felt something holding her back.

She thought back to the night she had spent in that very room, and how she had come across the peculiar vial in Snape's nightstand.

_What is he hiding?_ she thought, unconsciously letting go of the railing, racking her brain for any information about her old Potions professor, but coming up with nothing. She hardly knew anything about him.

_What has he been doing these last couple of years? What if ... what if it has something to do with the Order? What if his recent actions has nothing to do with, well, me, and everything to do with_ ... She shook her head in frustration, she didn't know, but suddenly she felt quite stupid. Of course it had nothing to do with her. _Why would it?_

Hermione bit her lip, her eyes darting to the door above the stairs ... And then she made a split decision. She whipped out her wand, and for the second time that evening whispered, "_Lumos_." With her heart almost beating out of her chest, she jogged into the bedroom and opened the drawer. Shaking, she grabbed the vial and walked back out, scanning the room for the Pensieve. She found it in the corner, at the exact same spot where she had first seen it.

_Here goes nothing_, she thought as she poured the wispy content into the stone basin.

She took a deep breath and dived into the Pensieve, immediately falling headlong onto the floor of the Headmaster's study at Hogwarts. When she straightened up she could see Snape standing by the fire grate, lost in thought.

Suddenly Phineas Nigellus came hurrying into his portrait.

"Headmaster! They are camping in the Forest of Dean! The Mudblood—"

"Do not use that word!" Snape snapped.

"The Granger girl, then, mentioned the place as she opened her bag and I heard her!"

"Good. Very good!" cried the portrait of Dumbledore behind the Headmaster's chair. "Now, Severus, the sword! Do not forget that it must be taken under conditions of need and valor—and he must not know that you give it! If Voldemort should read Harry's mind and see you acting for him—"

"I know," said Snape curtly.

He walked up to the portrait of Dumbledore and pulled at its side. It swung forwards, revealing a hidden cavity behind it, from which he took the sword of Gryffindor.

"Gentlemen," Snape said sarcastically, as he draped a traveling cloak over his robes, swiftly turning and walking out the door.

"Good luck!" Hermione heard Dumbledore call out before the office disappeared and she found herself knee-deep in snow, in the Forest of Dean.

Snape pulled out his wand and muttered something under his breath. There was a distinct crackle, and then an old, worn-looking tent came into sight about a hundred meters from where they were standing.

_What! How did he ...? _Hermione frowned, suddenly overcome with a newfound respect for the man beside her. _Of course. _Apart from Dumbledore, and Voldemort himself, no one but Snape would've been able to to break the protective spells she had put up around the camp.

They trekked across the forrest, giving the tent a wide berth. It was an eerie night, and even though she couldn't feel it, she knew it was freezing. She looked at Snape, his hair whipping in the relentless wind, his face hard, his eyes focused.

Suddenly he stopped, examining a small pond in front of him. He quickly unfroze it with a flick of his wand, gently pulling out the sword of Gryffindor from inside his robes, throwing it unceremoniously into the water, before covering it with ice once more.

On his way back he took a different route, this one a little closer to the camp site. The tent came into view and he slowed his pace, cautiously inching forwards. When he was only a couple of meters away, he stopped. They were now so close that Hermione could hear herself talking to Harry from inside the tent.

"He's not coming back, Hermione," Harry said, his voice strained. "We have to focus on the Horcruxes now, and there's not much time left. I can feel it."

"I know, I know, it's just ... We have nothing to go on." Hermione could hear the desperation in her own voice. "We're fumbling in the dark. And even if we find them, through some divine miracle, how are we supposed to destroy them?"

"We'll find a way," Harry said unconvincingly. "Don't worry."

"I need some air," she heard herself say, and Snape immediately dove behind a tree, out of sight.

Hermione saw her younger self walking slowly alongside the tent, gazing up at the stars. A sob escaping her lips as she hugged herself tightly.

Beside her, Snape was watching the same scene, through the tree branches. His harsh features completely gone, replaced by a helpless, defeated look. He looked so human and ... concerned, it almost broke her heart.

And then his face hardened and he backed away carefully, picking up the pace as soon as he was out of earshot. At a safe distance from the site, he pulled out his wand and pointed it towards the sky.

"_Expecto Patronum!_" he yelled and from the tip burst the silvery doe, landing on the forrest floor, agilely stretching its legs before scampering into the woods.

The scene shifted.

She was standing next to herself, Harry and Ron in the Shrieking Shack. Snape lay sprawled on the floor, blood oozing from the wound on his neck. _He must have been attacked only seconds ago_, Hermione thought, the feeling of panic spreading in her chest. Never in a million years had she guessed that she would have to relive this moment again.

A terrible rasping, gurgling noise issued from Snape's throat. "Come closer." He gestured weakly to Harry, grabbing the younger man's robe as he bent over him.

"My tears ... Take them," he wheezed, as silvery drops gushed from his eyes. Harry turned to Hermione, not knowing what to do. Shaking violently, she conjured a flask from thin air, thrusting it into his hands. Harry lifted the silvery substance into it with his wand, not noticing how Snape's grip on him slackened.

"Look ... at ... me ...," Snape whispered.

But the words were not directed at Harry. Instead, Hermione saw how she buried her face in Ron's chest, oblivious to Snape's desperate last attempt to catch her attention before unconsciousness hit him.

The room dissolved slowly, and they were back at Spinner's End.

Snape was pacing back and fort in his sitting room, a glass of Firewhisky in his hand. He had an impressive amount of gauze wrapped around his neck, his skin more sallow than she had ever seen it. He looked dreadful. Dreadful, but alive.

She walked over to the coffee table, careful not to tread on the crumpled papers that lay strewn all over the floor. Not that it mattered, but still.

A copy of the _Daily Prophet_ was laying amidst quills and ink bottles and half eaten sandwiches. Her eyes widened as she read the headline.

_War Heroes Getting Hitched - Love Conquers All. _

And then there was a blurry picture of her and Ron, looking at engagement rings in a little jewelry shop in Muggle London. Her eyes drifted to a letter beside the newspaper, recognizing Snape's spiky handwriting instantly. It was obviously the latest in a series of rejected drafts, and only contained two sentences.

_Miss Granger, _

_I would very much like to meet with you at your earliest convenience. _

Once again, the scene shifted, and they were back at Hogwarts, in the Headmaster's study. This time, McGonagall sat behind the desk, holding a piece of paper in front of her.

Snape was sitting opposite her, his hands in his lap, his greasy hair falling forward, creating a curtain around his face.

Hermione moved closer.

"What is this?" McGonagall asked, frowning.

"I thought it rather obvious, Minerva," Snape drawled. "It's my letter of resignation."

McGonagall let out a huff and let the parchment fall onto the desk.

"You're the Deputy Headmaster. You can't leave. The school needs you. _I_ need you."

Snape grimaced. "I can't stay."

"What about the Order? Are you leaving it as well?"

"Yes."

"What is this about, Severus?"

Snape squirmed almost invisibly in his chair, but didn't answer.

"Is it about ... Hermione Granger?" McGonagall pressed.

"Weasley," Snape corrected her.

McGonagall regarded the man in front of her for a couple of seconds. "Yes. I heard she got married."

"Then you also understand why I must leave," Snape said quietly.

"I never realized that you were this ... attached to her, Severus?" Minerva said softly.

"Neither did I," Snape admitted reluctantly.

"And there's no way I can persuade you to stay?" she asked.

Snape smiled forlornly. "I'm afraid not."

"Very well," she sighed, pinching her nose slightly. "But finding a replacement will be difficult, if not impossible."

"Talk to Horace Slughorn," Snape said as he rose. "I'm quite sure he is up for it."

The scene shifted and Hermione found herself in Diagon Alley, standing next to Snape outside Flourish and Blotts. A little bell chimed as he strode in, browsing through the store with confidence in his steps. He looked older, with silver threads in his hair, and a healthier tinge to his skin.

She watched him perusing the bookshelves, briefly stopping here and there, pulling out a book, then putting it back. Suddenly, upon walking around to another section, he stopped cold.

Hermione followed his gaze and noticed herself, leaning against a wall, her nose buried in a large tome. _Wait a minute! I remember this! _she thought.

It had been a couple of days before the Quidditch World Cup, and she had been out looking for a birthday present for Harry, but had, as per usual, ended up buying books for herself instead.

She watched Snape watching her, and it felt like an eternity before he finally moved, seemingly unsure of what to do. He took a tentative step forwards, but then changed his mind, a spectrum of emotions flitting across his features, before he quickly turned and exited the store.

And then the scene shifted once more. This time she stood in the middle of the bedroom adjacent to Snape's lab. She saw herself standing by the door, biting her lip, obviously about to leave. Snape was still in bed, his sleepy eyes pleading with her to stay.

_How did I not see that before? _she thought, confused.

"I take it you're not staying for breakfast then?" Snape asked, his voice raspy from sleep.

"No." She saw herself shaking her head slowly. "I better go."

She watched Snape slump back against the pillows after she had closed the door, gently touching her side of the bed.

All of a sudden, a large hand grabbed a hold of her shoulder and roughly pulled her out of Pensieve. She fell to the floor, her head spinning like crazy.

"Are you quite done?" Snape said, his voice barely a whisper.

"I'm sorry," she said weakly, at a loss for words. "I didn't mean to-to ..." She trailed off. Still dizzy, she pushed herself off the floor into a sitting position. "I-I didn't know."

"Well, now you do," he replied in clipped tones, reaching out for her hand and helping her to her feet.

She found herself tongue-tied, not sure of what to say or do, or how to act.

"I don't understand," she said after a couple of minutes of strained silence, forcing herself to meet his gaze. "The memories ... Why do you keep them bottled up?"

"Because, Hermione," Snape said, his jaw clenched tight. "If I didn't, if I had them in my head, to be examined at leisure, to be mulled over, anytime, day or night." He paused. "I would probably go mad." He ran a hand through his hair. "This was not how it was supposed to_—_" he started, but stopped. "You weren't supposed to find out this way," he said quietly.

She broke his gaze, overwhelmed.

"I-I should leave," she stuttered, nervously fiddling with the hem of her sweater. "Ron is probably wondering where I am."

Snape regarded her for a moment, then gave her a sad smile. "Yes. I'm sure he is."


	7. Chapter 7 - the Inevitable

**Chapter 7 - the Inevitable**

Hermione sped down the street towards the Apparition point. Her throat felt dry and her tongue kept sticking to the roof of her mouth. She wanted a drink, desperately.

She could hear her own heartbeat pounding in her ears; a thundering waterfall that kept crashing against the inside of her skull, over and over again. She couldn't string together a single coherent thought, it was like catching water with her bare hands. As if all of her thoughts had morphed into flies, swirling and ducking, taunting her, just out of reach. She felt drunk, without having taken a single sip of anything.

She half-ran past the crooked sign that told her that, yes, she was still at Spinner's End, past the sad-looking, abandoned houses, until she finally found herself at the end of the street. The Apparition point was next to an old lamppost, its light flickering lazily in the summer night. She drew in a couple of ragged breaths, steadying herself against it. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to calm down. She would splinch herself into bits and pieces if she Apparated like this.

She just ... couldn't believe it, or wrap her head around the fact that he ... that he was ... She felt herself blush fiercely. She could hardly even _think_ it. _Come on. Stop it._ She had _slept_ with him, and yet ... This was much more intimate.

She cringed. How could she have been so stupid? She had been so sure that the memories had something to do with the _Order_. She had convinced herself that it was something so out of line, so questionable, that she had a _right_ to see it, whatever it was. _Idiot! You trusted him all throughout the war, and yet this has you rooting around his private lab; taking liberties with his _very_ private possessions?_

That wasn't the whole truth, and she knew it. She had been curious. Too curious for her own good.

She opened her eyes. Her heart kept beating a little bit too fast, a little bit too hard. She stared blankly at the asphalt beneath her feet.

Severus Snape was in love with her.

Or had been, at least.

_Lord knows what he thinks of me know._ She wanted to slap herself in the face. _It doesn't matter what he thinks. It doesn't matter the slightest, because I'm married and I'm on my way home to my husband, to _Ron_. And we might be having problems but we're sorting them out. Trying to. Wanting to._ She leaned back against the lamppost.

The picture of Snape, standing beside the Pensieve uncertainly, his dark eyes locking with hers, searching, waiting for a reaction, was etched in her memory. She had violated his trust. Snooped around his house. Pried his soul open without his consent.

She felt guilt bubbling in her stomach and clenched her fists weakly. _It doesn't matter_, she repeated in her head. _I'm a married woman. Whatever Severus ... Snape, _she corrected herself,_ is feeling ... It's not mutual. I don't harbor anything towards him except anger and guilt._

Yet somewhere deep down in her gut, a little flutter made it's existence known. And instead of fading away as she gradually calmed down, it grew louder and louder, until it couldn't be ignored. It demanded to be heard, to be felt.

She shook her head. _This is ridiculous_, she thought angrily, before disappearing into thin air with a quiet pop.

* * *

Seconds later she was stumbling across a particularly muddy part of the cornfield that surrounded the Burrow. She hadn't been able to concentrate enough to bring herself closer and was now up to her ankles in water and guck. She let out a shriek as she sank deep into a puddle, the dirty water seeping in everywhere. She blew away a strand of hair from her face, drew herself up quickly and ran the last couple of meters; the long, sharp straws whipping in her face.

She almost tripped over herself when she reached the much more agreeable lawn, but managed to stay upright, and then hurriedly began to make her way towards the house.

As she got closer she saw two dark figures, standing close together by the front door. By the sound of it, they were having some sort of argument. She slowed down instinctively, squinting at the couple through the damp summer mist that had settled over the fields and around the Weasley premises.

"I don't agree with him, if that's what you're implying!" she heard George hiss angrily.

"Good!" Bill Weasley snarled back. "'Cause if you even try to encourage this—"

"I'm not! I think he's making a bloody mistake, Bill, but it's _his_ life!"

"Exactly! And he needs someone to tell him he's being a—" Bill immediately went quiet when he saw Hermione emerging through the fog. She tried to smile, but felt awkward and wrong, like she had been caught eavesdropping.

"I didn't mean to interrupt ..." she started but trailed off. She honestly didn't know what to say, and she had a nagging feeling that they had been talking about her.

Bill gave her a terse nod, shot George a look that she clearly wasn't meant to see, and then he slipped back inside the house.

Hermione turned to George, confused. "What's going on?" she asked as the cold sensation of worry mixed with dread rushed through her veins, spreading like a rash, forcing its way to her chest.

George sighed. "It's not really my place to tell." He cast a glance at the door. "But Ron's not doing too well, to be honest." He ran a hand through his hair. "You need to talk to him."

* * *

Hermione found him in the garden behind the house, sitting with his back against the trunk of a big oak tree, gazing out the orchard. She slumped down beside him quietly. For a while they just sat there, side by side. The only sound was that of Ron, pulling up grass, breaking the straws into little pieces.

Hermione waited. Waited for him to start. She could sense that he had something important to say, but that he didn't quite know where or how to begin. Usually, under normal circumstances, she would have been too impatient, urging him on with a click of her tongue or a sigh. But she knew they were past that. These weren't normal circumstances. So she waited.

"I never wanted to be an Auror, you know," Ron said finally, breaking the silence. "I just didn't have the heart to tell you back then. You were so happy ... For me. For us." He broke off, and stared into the mist. "I was actually kind of relieved when they kicked me out. I'm not exactly thrilled to be working where I am now, but I don't hate it either."

Hermione looked down on her wet, muddy trousers. Braced herself for what was coming.

"I don't think I can do this anymore," Ron said quietly. "I just ... I need some time. To think about this, about us and about ... Everything, really." He cast a glance at her, for the first time since she had arrived. "I'm sorry. For ... You know, I haven't been myself lately. I've said some things ... Well, it's just-It's not like it's been easy talking to you."

She grimaced. _Of course_. He always found a way to make it feel like she purposely shut him out, like she secretly wanted him to feel miserable and lonely.

"We're not fifteen Ron, and _dating_," she said, choosing, as was her custom, to counter with logic. "We're married. We can't just 'take a break'. It doesn't work like that." She bit her lip. _Does it?_

Ron sighed and laced his fingers together in his lap. "Yeah," he said, and fell quiet.

"What do you mean 'yeah'?" she replied irritably after yet another minute of silence. Why did she have to _force_ him to talk to her?

"I figured you'd say that." Ron looked down on his hands, untangled them and pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket, giving it to her. "So I filled this out."

Hermione unfolded the paper, read the first line and then just stared at it numbly.

_Petition for Dissolution of Marriage._

Neatly signed at the bottom with Ron's signature.

"When did you get this?" she whispered, her voice wavering slightly.

"Does it matter?"

She whipped her head around. _Of course it bloody matters_. "Yes," she said, her lips pressed together.

"Fine," he bit out. "I got it a few days after you-after you went out with _him_. I was just so angry, it felt good doing something, _anything_. I never thought we'd actually ... Do it, you know. But then I realized: I wasn't angry because you went out with him, I was angry because we made the decision in the first place. People who love each other, who _really_ love each other, would never do that." He stopped, as if he had caught himself saying too much.

"I don't know what happened to us, 'Mione," he continued, after a while. "But this could be a good thing too, right? If we're meant to be together, we'll find a way. But right now ..." he trailed off. "It's like that saying. _If you love somebody, set them free. If they come back, they're yours forever, if they don't, they were never yours to begin with."_

Hermione stared at him.

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard," she said shrilly, fury erupting like a volcano in her chest. "Did you copy that right out of the _Tales of Beedle the Bard_?"

"Don't be like that, 'Mione, that's not—"

"Don't call me that, _Ronald_, it's stupid and it's childish and I _hate_ it." She glared at him, unable to control her anger. "You run off to the Ministry to get divorce-papers before you even talk to me? And you dare, _dare_, try to blame me for standing in the way of your dreams? I did _everything_ for you!"

She rose clumsily.

"You've just up and decided that you don't want this anymore? I don't even get a say? _Fine_!"

She angrily wiped away a couple of tears. "This is it, then?" she asked shakily.

Ron looked at her tiredly, his jaw shut tight. "What do you want me to say?"

Hermione regarded the man she had loved for the better part of her life. The man she had cried with, laughed with, fought with, clung to when the world had flashed its vicious fangs in her face. She looked at him, feeling like it was the last time she would ever lay eyes on him again. And again, she waited. For the burning humiliation to turn into heart-wrenching agony.

But it never did.

* * *

The following week was awful. Ron hardly even looked at her, much less talked to her, on the off-chance that they bumped into each other on the stairs or in the kitchen. He worked late every night, even though Hermione knew that he didn't have to. It was obvious that he made an effort to stay away, and she couldn't blame him.

The atmosphere in the house was tense, to say the least. Everyone kept shooting her sympathetic looks, quieting down whenever she entered a room; it was as if they all had forgotten how to interact with her. It broke her heart to think that she was about to lose the whole Weasley clan, maybe even more than the fact that she was losing Ron. They had been her surrogate family in the wizarding world, assuming the role without so much as thinking twice, giving her guidance and encouragement in all the areas her parents couldn't.

Now she was on her own.

Late one night, when Ron had just gotten home from one of his fake late night shifts, he approached her. She was sitting on the floor in his room, a marker in one hand, and a roll of masking tape in the other, labeling the few boxes she would take with her. He leaned against the door jamb awkwardly, watching her. Hermione immediately recognized the smell of beer and cheap cigarettes on him and knew that he had spent the last couple of hours at one of the pubs in Diagon Alley.

He looked embarrassed, and for one confused fraction of a second she thought he was about to apologize.

"So, er ... How are you?" he asked her stiffly.

"What do you want, Ron?" She was not in the mood for games. "Get on with it."

"I was just wondering ..." He started gnawing on his thumbnail nervously. "Well, what are we going to do with the money?"

It took her a minute to catch on. She had completely forgotten about the money.

Hermione shrugged. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction of thinking that she cared. Her insides, however, were in turmoil over this new level of douchbaggery.

"I don't want any of it," she replied, knowing that he was hoping for her to tell him that the sensible thing to do would be to split the money between them. _Well. I'm done with sensible_, she thought as she watched the color rise on Ron's cheeks.

"What? You-well, me neither!" he spluttered, causing her to smirk just a tiny bit.

"Fine. We'll just leave them in the vault to rot, then," she said off-handedly, turning back to her boxes. _Much like our marriage, _she thought bitterly.

They didn't exchange a single word after that.

She needed to leave. She was itching to leave; the thought of having to spend another night; having another quiet, drawn-out dinner, almost threw her into full panic mode. The problem was, she had nowhere to go.

Hermione spent the rest of the week frantically searching for anything, anywhere, but to no avail. Heck, a shoebox would have sufficed if she had only been just a little bit smaller. For a while she even thought about asking Harry if she could stay at Grimmauld Place with him and Ginny, but quickly dismissed that idea. Sharing a home with a happily married couple and a little baby was too much for her to stomach at the moment.

Just as she was ready to give up, admit defeat and move back in with her parents, Arthur stepped forward like a knight in shining armor, saving her from the embarrassment. She had always been fond of the patriarch of the family, and even more so now that it turned out that one of his old friends from school had a daughter that was moving overseas to enroll in an exchange-program. She would be gone for a year and needed someone to rent her small apartment. Immediately. Hermione had never felt so relieved in her life, almost breaking down in tears at the news.

The flat was situated two blocks from campus in central Muggle London, mere walking distance from all of her classes. The rent wasn't high and the apartment, that lay on the second floor, with windows overlooking the street below, was already furnished, which was a blessing because Hermione had no furniture and absolutely no money to spare.

When the day finally came for her to leave the Weasley nest, she hardly felt sad at all, tearing up only a little when she said her last goodbyes to Arthur and Molly.

Molly had hugged her tightly, tears brimming in her eyes, and just before breaking apart she had leaned in and whispered, "He'll come around, love. I'm sure of it."

* * *

George helped her move her few belongings, and as soon as they stepped over the threshold to her new home she let out a loud sigh. She had done it unconsciously, her body relaxing for the first time in days, but it still alarmed her red-haired companion.

"You alright?" he asked as he placed a couple of pillows and a comforter on the couch in the sitting room.

"Not really," she said honestly. "But I will be, I suppose."

"Hermione ..." He took a few awkward steps towards her. "I'm really sorry about this, if there's anything—"

She waved at him dismissively, shooting him a forced smile. "Don't be. I'll be fine, I just need ... some time."

"I should go," he said quietly. "We'll keep in touch, yeah?"

She looked at him, her former brother-in-law, and felt a pang of sadness. They wouldn't keep in touch. They would say hello and exchange polite conversation if they happened to see each other on one of Hogwart's reunion balls or in Diagon Alley. But that would be the extent of it.

"Of course," she said. "And thanks again ... for everything."

"Anytime," he replied, giving her a wink before Disapparating.

* * *

A grey and depressingly rainy morning, three days later, found Severus Snape sitting in one of his leather armchairs, leafing through a copy of the _Daily Prophet_.

Suddenly the fire grate crackled and Augustus Tirden's head appeared.

"Severus!" he called out. "Are you there?"

Snape delicately folded the newspaper, placing it in his lap before addressing the stressed-looking man.

"Quite," he drawled. "To what do I owe this pleasure, Tirden? It's not even noon."

"I'm at work, so I don't have a lot of time. I just wanted to know if you've heard?"

Snape frowned. "Heard what?"

"It's finalized," Tirden said urgently. "They sent it in yesterday, and it was approved today."

Snape stiffened in his chair. "Are you certain?" he asked, careful not to sound too eager.

"Of course, I talked to Anette Hughes myself," said Tirden and continued, "She's the Head of the Department for Magical Binding and Dissolution nowadays, you know. Replaced Ursula Vee just last week. I ran into her in the cafeteria, slipped it into the conversation."

"How does one just 'slip' that kind of thing into a conversation?" Snape asked as he pushed himself up from the chair.

Tirden scoffed. "It's all over the Ministry already, Severus. They're two thirds of the Golden Trio. They're _celebrities_. And Hughes has a yap trap the size of a Hungarian Horntail. It's only a matter of time before somebody leaks it to the press. When the reporters at the _Prophet_ gets their hands on this, it will be headline news for weeks."

"See to it that they don't, then," Snape snapped.

"You've got to be joking? How am I supposed to—Hey!" Tirden yelled. "Where are you going!"

"Out to lunch!" Snape called back, slamming the door behind him, a satisfied smirk forming on his lips.

* * *

Marion's, a newly opened bistro type restaurant, not far from Hermione's apartment, was just about to open its doors to the first hungry customers of the day. It was just past 12 o'clock and a couple of business men with leather portfolios and important smiles walked in resolutely, followed by two older ladies and a handful of construction workers, sporting hard hats and bright yellow vests.

Behind the counter stood Marion herself, but her name wasn't really Marion, it was Rita. A twenty-five-year-old woman, with dreads so long they touched her thighs, piercings in her lower lip and nose, and a dragon tattoo, whose head peeked up through her shirt, licking her ear with its tongue. Rita was, however, extremely good with numbers, very professional and ran the business with superb efficiency. People genuinely liked her, and the restaurant was rapidly becoming a favorite amongst the locals.

The summer had indeed been good to Rita and her restaurant. So good that she decided to hire a second waitress. And that waitress, a young woman with bushy hair, who had been extremely interested in the job, was currently in the kitchen, preparing today's special.

* * *

Hermione was just about to put the last bit of parsley on the plate of pasta before her, when Rita popped her head in the room.

"Psst, new girl!" she said, motioning with her finger. "Come over here a second."

Hermione immediately wiped her hands on her apron and walked over to the woman who was now her boss.

"Are you in any trouble?" Rita demanded, narrowing her eyes suspiciously.

"What?" Hermione said, slightly taken aback. "No, I'm—" She broke off, frowning, at a loss for words. She had no idea what Rita was talking about.

"Are you involved in any criminal activities that I should know about?" Rita replied brusquely. "Because now would be a really good time to tell me about them."

"I-I'm not quite sure I follow you," Hermione said in a small voice, desperately trying to understand what was going on. "Has something happened?"

Rita eyed the younger woman, seemingly debating with herself for a couple of seconds.

"There's a shady-looking gentleman out front who says he won't order from anyone but you. Long black hair, dark eyes." She paused. "He _snarled_ at me," she added indignantly.

Hermione felt her jaw drop. There was only one person she knew who fit that description, and he was the last person she wanted to see. Except for maybe Ron. "But I-Nobody knows I work here, Rita, I haven't even told my parents," she said, feeling her pulse quicken.

Rita raised an eyebrow. "Well, this fellow certainly knows. And it looks like he's staying until he gets what he wants. You better get out there."

Hermione nodded glumly and squeezed past Rita through the door, slowly making her way out to the restaurant. She scanned the room quickly, and sure enough, seated at a table in the middle of the floor, with a scowl firmly in place behind a thick curtain of hair, was Severus Snape.

She cringed, and then felt herself flush, unable to stop the memories from their last encounter from surfacing.

A nudge in the back made her snap back to reality. "Go on," Rita whispered behind her.

Hermione exhaled and quickly crossed the room. She stopped short in front of Snape, fiddling with her pad, trying to find a pen in her pocket. She let out a frustrated sound when she realized that she must've left it in the kitchen.

When she looked up, Snape was watching her intently, an amused smile on his lips. The crease between his brows had gone and when she met his gaze, it was soft, warm even. He quietly held out a shiny, black quill; the letters S.T.S engraved in silver on it.

"Erm, thanks." She cleared her throat and then awkwardly said, "Welcome to Marion's, sir. What can I get you?"

Snape leaned back in his chair, his smile deepening.

"Well, what would you recommend?"

Hermione recited the menu, including the hors d'oeuvres and the vegetarian options. Snape raised a questioning eyebrow at this, and she felt her cheeks grow hot. "You should try the salmon, though," she added quickly. "It's supposed to be delicious."

"Then salmon it is," Snape smirked.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" Hermione asked, more than ready to retreat to the kitchen.

"Yes." Snape gave her a peculiar look and put his elbows on the table. "I was wondering if you would join me?"

Hermione glanced over to the counter. She could feel Rita's gaze burn a hole in her back.

"I-I can't," she stuttered.

"You can't?" Snape said slowly. "Or you won't?"

"I ..." She paused, biting her lip. "Can't. I've only just started working here—" She shot him a look. He was obviously aware of this or he wouldn't be sitting in front of her right now. Maybe it should've unnerved her, but a small part of her was ... flattered. "And you've already made my boss questioning why she hired me at all."

"Fair enough," said Snape. "When would be a good day for you then?"

Hermione shook her head, trying to buy some time while her brain struggled with what was happening. "I don't know ... I suppose I ... Maybe Thursday?"

"Then I guess I'll be back on Thursday," Snape said, rising from the table. He gave her a small smile, before swiftly turning and walking towards the exit.

"Oh," was all Hermione managed to answer, still confused over the path the conversation had taken. She looked down on her hands. "Wait!" she called out. "What about your quill?"

Snape cast a glance at her over his shoulder, quirking his lips. "Keep it."


	8. Chapter 8 - Lunch Session No 1

**Chapter 8 - Lunch Session No. 1**

Severus Snape scrutinized himself in the mirror, pulling at his cuffs irritably. First the right one. Then the left. Then the right again, before reaching up and adjusting his tie. He grimaced. Why was he even wearing a tie? To a _lunch_? _Who wears a tie to lunch?_ he thought and shot himself a disgusted look.

"Ahem," said the mirror.

"What?" Snape sneered, glaring at his own reflection.

"Oh, nothing," the mirror grumbled.

Snape narrowed his eyes. "Spit it out."

"I've never seen you wear a tie. It makes you look old," the mirror told him bluntly. "And you're already too old for that girl you're trying to impress."

"I'm most certainly not trying to impress anyone," Snape said through gritted teeth. "And I'm not old," he added testily, ripping the tie off as he stalked out of the bathroom.

"Just pointing out the obvious!" the mirror called after him. "Those grey streaks are not exactly doing you a—" Snape spun around and slammed the door shut.

He stood still for a second, swaying on the spot in the middle of his bedroom. Pinching his nose slightly, he drew in a slow breath. He had woken up early, unreasonably early, tossing back and forth in his bed, kicking off his duvet, pounding his pillows, shifting positions. Nothing had persuaded his body into going back to sleep.

He was nervous. And he hated being nervous.

So far in his ... efforts ... to make Hermione Granger his, he had been the one dictating the situations and their outcome; it had been a game played on his side of the court, by his rules.

He had been the one with the leverage, and he had thrived on it.

Snape looked down on the now wrinkled tie in his hand. A Hermione Granger caught off guard was quite harmless. She blushed, was flustered. Averted her eyes. Couldn't think of what to say. He liked that Hermione; it made him want to reach into her hair and twirl a curl around his finger, trace the freckles on her nose, kiss her eyelids, pull her close and keep her safe.

A Hermione Granger prepared and ready for battle was ... lethal. He knew this from her days at Hogwarts, from the Trio's search for Horcruxes, from the war. She possessed a fierce fire just waiting to be lit, a fire that, when it reached her eyes, was so vivid that only a fool would try to stay and fight it.

It made him feel vulnerable, like she was a force of nature and he was a mere observer. And even though it unnerved him, that abrasive feeling of not being in control, he liked that Hermione even better. A sudden shiver went down his spine. That Hermione made him want to—

_This_. He shook his head fiercely. _Is not the time_.

She had had four whole days to get ready for this little meeting and would no doubt jump to the chance to interrogate him about the house. And what could he possibly tell her? That he had bought it just to get her attention? Like a school boy with a crush; pulling his love interest's ponytail because he didn't have enough courage to tell her the truth?

Only he had money and just a little more finesse.

No. This time he had no leverage. Whatsoever. It was all up to him. His wit and charm—he scoffed—and ability to ... What? Convince her to look beyond the shell that was her ex-professor, the former Death Eater and ex-spy who, more recently, had bribed her into his bed and, as a result of that, destroyed her marriage? A man who also happened to be twenty years her senior?

_Nineteen_, he muttered. _Get your facts straight._

He threw the tie on the bed. This was the chance he had been waiting for. He couldn't afford to screw it up.

And it made him nervous.

* * *

Snape glanced around the restaurant. He was sitting at the same table as last time, giving him a good view of the room. It was still quite early, and most of the tables were empty. A young couple was sitting near the door, exchanging intimate glances and holding hands. Snape watched as the man leaned forward, smiling at the woman opposite him, coaxing her into giving him a kiss.

He frowned and looked away, directing his gaze towards the counter. The restaurant itself was ... passable, he supposed. The food was not bad, but not extraordinary in any way. The interior was quite charming, although maybe a little too much on the bohemian side for his liking. The only thing he had a slight problem with was _her_. The owner. The woman with the ridiculous dragon tattoo, who had questioned him about Hermione and his reasons for wanting to see her.

He scoffed. That tattoo was so poorly executed he had thought it was an anteater at first.

Suddenly Hermione emerged from what he presumed was the kitchen and all other thoughts disappeared as he took in her appearance. She was wearing black pants and a white shirt, the universal dress code for waiters and waitresses around the globe, and which incidentally—he scowled—was exactly what he was wearing as well. The only thing separating their outfits, literally, was his dragon hide boots and her black apron.

Snape watched her craning her neck, gazing out the room until her eyes landed on him. He smiled. A genuine smile, which was quite rare in his world. Nodding, she made her way across the floor, stopping behind the empty chair in front of him.

He opened his mouth to say hello, but she cut him to it.

"Look," Hermione said, still standing. "I don't—" She bit her lip. "I don't know what you're trying to do here." She looked down. "Or rather ... I _think_ I know what you're trying to do and I'm not sure I'm comfortable with it."

Snape put his elbows on the table. "I'm just asking you to have lunch with me," he said calmly, trying to sound casual even though his heart was pounding. "Just lunch," he repeated and instantly felt like an idiot for trying to talk her into staying.

She shifted her feet. "Fine," she sighed. "But I've only got forty-five minutes." She pulled out the chair and sat down, placing a plastic container on the table.

"What is _that_?" he asked, pointing towards the container.

"My lunch," she said off-handedly and flipped the lid open like it was the most natural thing in the world to bring your own food to a restaurant.

Snape frowned. "I thought you were going to let me buy you lunch?"

"While I appreciate the thought," she replied curtly. "I don't need you to buy me anything."

"Then I suggest you buy it yourself," he said, unable to keep the frustration from creeping into his voice. "Because that doesn't even look like enough food to feed a mouse."

She shot him an angry look and shrugged. "I'm on a tight budget."

"A _million_ galleons is a tight budget?" he asked, reaching out for his glass of water and taking a sip.

Hermione picked up her fork and speared a piece of potato, ignoring him.

"What?" he pressed, putting down his glass with a little too much force. "Don't tell me you gave it all to _Weasley_?"

Before Hermione could answer, Rita swooped down on them, her pad and pen ready. She regarded the couple for a moment, curling her lip disapprovingly.

"Is that all you're going to eat?" she asked in her low, almost masculine, voice, nodding towards the pathetic contents of Hermione's container.

"Yes," Hermione said, provocatively biting into another piece of potato. "I am."

Rita frowned and turned to Snape. "And what can I get you?"

"I'll have the pasta," he replied, not even giving her a look, his attention fixed elsewhere. He just wanted her to leave so they could be alone. He looked at Hermione. "I wish you'd let me—"

"Last time I accepted an offer of yours," Hermione interrupted. "It ended in a marathon of misery, so thanks, but no."

Snape felt his mood drop instantly. _It's only been ten minutes, and I'm already turning into a bloody self-fulfilling prophecy,_ he thought heavily.

Rita gave him a triumphant smile before she turned and left for the kitchen, a gesture that made his blood boil. He glared at her back, his wand hand twitching. Five minutes later she was back with his food, clicking her tongue in annoyance at Snape's mere presence and then hurried off.

An uncomfortable, cold silence stretched and wrapped its wings around the couple as they ate their food. Snape had lost his appetite, but forced himself to eat just to have something to do.

He chanced a glance at Hermione. She sat still, picking at her food. Snape scowled, noticing how tired she looked. Maybe that was why she was giving him such a hard time. _Or maybe you deserve it,_ a voice in the back of his mind whispered.

He looked at her hands. Her long, delicate fingers. A sudden jolt shot through his chest as his eyes fell on her wedding ring. It was a sad-looking thing, thin and worn, with a diamond in the center that was so small that he had to look twice to even notice it. _Why am I not surprised? Weasley probably bought it at a yard sale,_ he thought to himself.

Hermione cleared her throat. "I'm sorry," she said quietly, looking at him. "I shouldn't have said that. I've been under a lot of pressure lately and—"

He waved at her dismissively, trying to remember just _what_ she had said. He still had his mind on the ring. "I'm a grown man, Hermione. You don't have to lie to make me feel better. If that's how you feel, that's how you feel."

"Oh, right, I just ..." she trailed off and turned to look out the window.

Ten silence-stricken and agonizingly slow minutes later, Snape looked up from his plate, watching the woman in front of him. He couldn't take it any longer.

"I see you're still wearing your ring," he heard himself say. It sounded like an accusation, even to his own ears, but he couldn't stop himself. "I thought you and Weasley had ... parted ways."

Surprise flitted across Hermione's features, her eyes darting to her right ring finger. "We have."

"Then why are you trying to make it look like you haven't?" he asked, trying to sound less annoyed than he actually was, his pulse quickening. "I'm quite sure that insufferable idiot has had no problem moving on." He felt a rush of anger at the thought of the youngest Weasley male.

_That little prick. To imagine that he had her and just—_

"Don't talk about him like that," Hermione said in clipped notes. "You don't know him."

"I beg to differ. You forget that I was his teacher for six _long_ years," he drawled. "And as far as I remember, his academic achievements were abysmal." Snape brushed off invisible lint from his shirt. "His work-related achievements seems to follow along the same pattern."

She didn't answer, so he continued.

"And to think that he could've been an Auror, had he not been so unbelievably ... incompetent. But stupidity knows no—"

"He did his best, you know," she cut off hotly. "But we hit a really rough patch and—"

"You're defending him now?" he snapped. "How very big of you seeing as he tossed you out, leaving you to fend for yourself—"

"That's not—"

"Didn't you have to beg his _father_ to help you find somewhere else to live?"

"Enough!" Hermione slammed down her fork. "Why is it that you know _everything_ about me? Where I live, what I eat, who I'm talking to? My divorce isn't public news, and yet you know exactly the when and where and how of it!" she hissed.

Snape slumped back in his chair, momentarily shaken. He had said too much, gone too far, and he knew it. He looked away from her, biting back the urge to tell her that the only reason wizarding Britain wasn't aware of their break up was thanks to _him_. Instead he said, "That's a bit of an exaggeration, don't you think?"

She gave him an exasperated look. "You're behaving like a complete arse."

"Again, I don't agree," he said. _But I am_, he thought, panicking slightly. _What the hell am I doing?_

They relapsed into a prickly silence. Hermione stabbing a bean repeatedly, while Snape was racking his brain for a way, any way, to get back in her good graces.

"Are you enjoying the house?" she suddenly spat out, red spots appearing on her cheeks and neck.

He flinched. He had been expecting this, and yet he could think of nothing to say. "What? No, I—"

"I'm so naive," she said, glaring at him. "I actually thought you had some sort of valid reason for buying it." She shook her head. "But it's quite obvious now that you bought it just to hurt me."

He winced inwardly. "No, look, I would never—"

"Seems our time's up," Hermione cut off, nodding stiffly towards a small clock on the wall behind the counter. She practically bolted from her chair and started clearing away her things.

Snape looked down on what was left of his cold pasta. He felt hollow. Empty. And like a failure. He had lost control and now he was paying for it. He looked up at her, and felt his chest constrict painfully. Hermione's cheeks were still a light shade of crimson. A couple of locks had fallen out of her loose ponytail, framing her face, bouncing around as she forced down the lid on her container.

A defeated sigh escaped Snape's lips as he leaned back in his chair. Maybe he had hoped for too much. Maybe he was too old. Maybe his bloody mirror was right.

Suddenly he felt his breath hitch, and he sat up straighter. Sticking up from the pocket of her apron was the quill he had given her a couple of days ago. _His_ quill.

_It could mean nothing,_ he thought hurriedly. _But it could also mean everything._

Hermione turned to him and blew away a strand of hair from her face. "I'm going," she said flatly. "Enjoy the rest of your meal."

"Wait", Snape said, stopping her in her tracks. "This was a complete disaster." He ran a hand through his hair. "I was ... out of line."

"That's putting it mildly," she replied.

"Let's try again," he said, reaching out and taking her hand. "I'll come back next Thursday and we can pretend that this lunch never happened." He quirked his lips, but they felt stiff and odd.

"Please," he added reluctantly. He despised begging. Had never begged anyone for anything in his whole life. _Willingly_, he added and pushed a few dark thoughts to the back of his mind. But he was indeed begging now.

"This is a restaurant. I can hardly stop you from eating here," Hermione said, sliding her hand out of his grip. "But don't expect me to join you."

And with that she turned around and disappeared into the kitchen.

* * *

_Author's note:  
_

Thanks for reading you guys! As always - I love and adore your thoughts!


	9. Chapter 9 - Lunch Session No 2

**Chapter 9 - Lunch Session No. 2**

Thursdays at Marion's were usually a rather quiet affair. A handful of lunch customers would stroll in around one o'clock, leisurely leaf through a magazine or newspaper in between bites and then order a cup of tea before returning to their respective workplaces. Later in the evening the restaurant would have about a dozen dinner guests, no more, no less, and Hermione liked it that way. The calm before the storm that was the weekend.

But for some reason this Thursday was different. It had been hectic and crowded and stressful, and lunch hour wasn't even over yet.

An elderly couple approached the counter cautiously, asking Hermione how long they would have to wait for a table.

"It will be another hour at least, I'm afraid." Hermione sighed as the couple gave her a disappointed look and left. She had been turning down more customers today than she had the last couple of weeks combined. But she knew better than to complain. She worked well under pressure and the high workload kept her mind off other ... _things_.

She cast a sideways glance at the entrance, like she had been every two seconds for the past thirty minutes; warily watching the steady stream of people walking in through the doors.

Snape was late.

Hermione turned her gaze to the counter and resumed the task of wiping it clean. Her arm protested slightly at the action; she had been polishing the surface frantically for nearly ten minutes.

She shot another peek at the door, looking right through the small crowd of people that had decided to take their chances and wait.

_Or maybe he isn't. Maybe he isn't coming at all_, she thought as she furiously started scrubbing a particularly persistent spot. A couple of intense seconds later she gave up, and it wasn't long before her thoughts wandered to the lunch fiasco from last week.

Snape's snide remarks and snarky comments had gotten to her, penetrated her not so thick skin, and she shouldn't have let them, but they had. Especially the one about having to _beg_ Arthur for help. That one stung.

It was her own fault, she supposed. She had grown accustomed to the new Snape. The Snape who was surprisingly gentle and caring. Even charming when he wanted to. Somewhere along the line she had taken down her walls, let down her guard, and allowed herself to relax around him. She had been lulled into believing that she wasn't a target anymore; that he had somehow made her the exception of the rule.

Hermione scowled. She wasn't completely innocent. She had said some things too. But at least she had tried to apologize. Even if he had dismissed it.

She had been angry. Long after her abrupt and rather immature departure, and long after her shift was over.

But as the week progressed and the initial fury died down, something else had surfaced, something she wasn't quite ready to acknowledge. Hurt. And confusion. So she clung to the anger like it was the last drop of water on Earth. Angry was easy, angry was safe.

She stopped wiping and exhaled loudly.

The problem wasn't the hurt or the confusion or the anger. Not really. Not anymore. The problem was that she felt too much.

It was as if her body had placed an ad in the _Prophet_ for a job opening as conductor of her emotions, and in some weird twist of fate _Snape_ had gotten the job.

Just thinking about him right know gave her a headache. How can one possibly be disappointed and curious and apprehensive at the same time? _And slightly aroused_ ..., a little voice in the back of her mind whispered.

Hermione shook her head. _Just. Stop._

It was all wrong. She shouldn't be thinking or feeling _anything_. She should be mourning her broken marriage. Not spend sleepless nights pondering over what path her life might have taken if Snape had decided to send her that letter after all.

She knew she had to talk to him. And soon.

Her eyes drifted towards the door, and suddenly she felt her whole body stiffening as Snape's familiar silhouette passed by the window. The flare of determination that had surged through her just seconds ago disappeared instantly, giving way to the overwhelming urge to _run_.

Which was exactly what she did.

* * *

Hermione had been pacing for five minutes; skittishly moving across the checkerboard floor in the kitchen, trying to get her malfunctioning brain back in order.

_This isn't helping, this isn't helping at all_, she thought, and even the voice in her head sounded panicky. She came to a sudden halt, put her hands on her head and plopped down on a wooden stool by the door. _If I could just—_

But before she could finish the thought, the door flew open and the doorknob caught her in the shoulder.

"Jesus!" Hermione yelled. "Take it easy!" She still had her hands above her head and had somehow managed to protect her face.

"Granger?" Rita called out, walking past Hermione into the kitchen, searching the room. "Where are you?"

"I'm right here, you maniac," Hermione groaned, pushing the door close with her foot, rubbing her arm.

Rita whipped around, startled, and when her eyes landed on Hermione, a frown immediately materialized on her face.

Over the past couple of weeks the two women had grown quite close. Rita was a workaholic by nature, something Hermione could both relate to and appreciate, and although Hermione didn't have to work nearly as much as she had ended up doing, she had found the time at Marion's to be both stress-relieving and pleasurable.

Naturally, this had resulted in the two of them spending a fair bit of time together, and even though Hermione wouldn't call Rita a friend, she was definitely on the path of becoming one, and a good one at that. And Hermione was pretty sure the feeling was mutual. She had seen the way Rita treated people she _didn't_ like, (Snape, for instance. She practically detested Snape. Hermione supposed it was because they shared similar personality traits. But she would take that discovery to the grave.) and when she wasn't flinging doors at people, she was actually a rather lovely person.

"Jack the Ripper is out front, contaminating the room with his sour presence," Rita said, folding her arms across her chest. "But I suppose you already know this, or you wouldn't be hiding in here when we're about to beat our weekday customer record."

"I've told you not to call him that," Hermione said, grimacing. "He's not a crazy woman killer."

"The evidence speaks against him, I'm afraid," Rita said. "He's completely dressed in black, which is ... well, beyond odd. And he gave me this look, like nothing in the world would bring him more pleasure then to lead me down a dark alleyway and feed me to a monstrous creature."

"That's just his face, Rita. He looks at everyone that way."

Rita snorted. "Except you." She pointed to the door. "Now go."

Hermione shook her head. "I don't want to."

"What are you, five?" Rita said, clicking her tongue in frustration.

"I really don't," Hermione insisted.

"So, you're actually giving me your permission to kick him out?" Rita said with glee. "Because you're the only one holding me back."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Should you really be this happy about evicting paying customers? _Any_ paying customer?"

"It's my restaurant, you know," Rita retorted. "I can do whatever I want."

Hermione smiled. "I doubt it."

"Then what?" Rita let out an angry sigh. "As much as I enjoy being in the middle of this Shakespearian love-debacle you have with the Grim Reaper—"

"Hey!"

"I really have to get back to work," Rita continued, taking no notice of Hermione's weak protest. "And so do you."

"Can't I just stay in here for a while?" Hermione moaned. "Maybe he'll get bored and leave."

Rita pulled a face. "Forget it."

"He doesn't always wear black, you know," Hermione muttered, rubbing her eyes. "Aaagh! I just ... I don't know what to do!"

Leaning against a counter, Rita eyed the younger woman, the crease in her forehead deepening. "Will you get out of here if I tell you that he brought flowers?"

Hermione jerked her head up. "What?"

"The weirdest-looking bouquet I've ever seen, but still." Rita wrinkled her nose so much it sparked an image in Hermione's mind of Snape with his arms full of roses, plutonium and snakes.

"Flowers," Rita repeated and shook her head.

* * *

Hermione spotted Snape by the entrance, almost hidden behind one of the two enormous ferns that Rita had, in a fit of decorative hysteria, placed on either side of the door to make it look "inviting" and "like a living room". Hermione didn't think anyone in their right mind would like their living room to look like an overgrown garden, but that was a thought she kept to herself.

Snape looked up as she rounded the plant, shooting her a tight smile. He was indeed wearing black, from head to toe, but Hermione found that oddly comforting. He was here, he had come. And he looked exactly like he was supposed to.

"I wasn't sure you'd show up today," she said, hoping her voice sounded more casual than she felt.

"Don't worry," said Snape. "I'm not staying. I just ..." He lifted the flowers towards her. "Wanted to give you these."

"Oh." Hermione glanced down on the bouquet. There were no traditional flowers in it, no roses or lilies, and it looked like it had been thrown together in a hurry. Or like the giver wanted it to _appear_ to have been thrown together in a hurry. But she could tell that each flower had been selected carefully.

She gave Snape a smile and made to reach for it, when a man suddenly grabbed her arm.

"Do you work here?" he barked in her face. "How much longer do I have to bloody wait? I've been here for over half an hour."

"I-I'm sorry, I'm on a break," she stuttered, stumbling backwards a couple of steps. "Try the front desk." The man rolled his eyes as he turned around, grunting something she couldn't make out, but what must've been borderline offensive judging by the way Snape immediately straightened up, his wand hand reaching inside his pocket.

"Let's step outside for a second," Snape said firmly, nodding towards the door. "Get away from these cretins."

They walked a couple of meters to the corner of the street, and then stopped. It was a typical summer's day. The air warm and pleasant. Hermione noticed how Snape had rolled up his sleeves, exposing his pale arms.

"Different flowers have different meanings, as I'm sure you remember from your time in Herbology," he said, handing her the flowers for the second time.

Hermione nodded, accepting the bouquet. "Of course."

He cast a glance down the street. "Then I'm sure no further explanation is needed."

She furrowed her brows. She was by no means a Victorian flower language enthusiast, and even though it would take her little to no effort to find out what Snape was trying to say, she wasn't going to let him off that easy.

"But you obviously went through a lot of trouble in putting this together," Hermione said. "I would really like for you to tell me, if you don't mind."

Snape looked away, obviously having counted on Hermione to figure out the puzzle herself.

"This," he said reluctantly, pointing to a small blue flower. "Is a hyacinth. When you give it to someone you're asking for that person's forgiveness."

A minuscule scoff escaped Hermione's lips. Snape, however, pretended like he hadn't heard.

"You have the alstroemeria right here, and it's symbolic for wealth, prosperity and fortune. But it's also the flower of friendship. I'm quite fond of that one."

"I bet," Hermione said.

"These are daffodils." Snape pointed towards three bright yellow flowers in the middle. "They symbolize regard and chivalry." He looked up at her. "And also new beginnings."

"I thought daffodils meant unrequited love," Hermione said before she could stop herself.

"They can," Snape said delicately. "It depends on the situation."

"I-I see," she said, wondering what kind of situation he thought this was.

"Right," he said, clearing his throat. "These are carnations." In the middle of the bouquet was a couple of light red carnations, and almost buried in the mix was a single, blood-colored one. "They symbolize admiration."

_Admiration?_

"They are my favorite flowers actually," Hermione said quickly, while trying to ignore the warmth spreading in the pit of her stomach. _He _admires_ me?_ "But what about the one in the middle? I know different colors have different meanings."

"Which one?" said Snape, feigning surprise.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. "You know which one."

"Well, I suppose it symbolizes a man who fucked up and tries to redeem himself, but he's such an idiot he just doesn't know how," he said.

Hermione let out a snort. "That sounds about right, but I doubt that's what it really means."

"Maybe it should," Snape said, smiling. A smile that reached his eyes.

Hermione laughed. Unintentionally and loud, but she just couldn't hold it in.

The corner of Snape's mouth was twitching, like he wanted to join her but wouldn't quite let himself. "According to the custom, if you accept the flowers, you accept my apology."

"Sounds fair," Hermione said, still smiling.

"So ... do you?"

"Do I what?" she teased.

Snape quirked his lips at her. "You know what."

"Yes," Hermione said, meaning it.

He looked relieved. "Good."

And then it seemed like he wanted to say something else, but had trouble saying it, and instead looked at her with such intensity that Hermione felt a blush coming on. She shifted her feet uncomfortably. "I should put these in water," she mumbled.

"Right," Snape said, and then smirked. "Of course."

The gesture made her wonder how it would be to lean in and kiss him, to feel his thin lips against hers ... Which was ridiculous because she already _had_ so obviously she _knew_ how it was.

_But that was different_, she thought, thinking back on the night at Spinner's End.

Her lips hadn't tingled at the thought of kissing him then. Not even during the actual kissing, either, or after, for that matter. Like they tingled now. And also, his _eyes_. When he looked at her it felt like she was the only one in the room. In the world, even. Hell, it felt like she was the only thing worth watching in the whole of the universe. Which was insane, when she thought about it. Because _northern lights_ and _baby alpacas_ and_ lunar eclipses_.

And he looked at _her_ like she was a combination of all those things.

She thought about Ron, and how the only time his eyes glittered was when he had his hands on the newest broomstick model.

"Take care, Hermione," Snape said, snapping her out of her thoughts. And then he strode off, leaving her staring after him long after he was gone.

* * *

Hermione clutched a cup of tea. She sat in the worn grey and blue plaid couch in her living room. She had her green pajama bottoms on and a knitted sweater that had been her dad's at one time. The arms were way too long and it had lost its luster, but she liked it. It felt soft and warm and like home.

She looked out the window. It was dark outside. A reminder of how fast time went and how soon fall would be there.

She let her thoughts stray to Severus Snape. She had done that a lot lately.

It had taken her approximately two and a half minutes to find the true meaning of the blood-red carnation. Two minutes in the university library, and half a minute to read the short passage.

_A bouquet of dark red carnations means deep love and affection. A single blood-red carnation flower, however, translates directly to: My heart aches for you._

It was just supposed to be sex. No feelings. No emotions. But it had never been that way for Snape. And she was starting to realize that it was slowly becoming something completely different for her as well.

She leaned forward, put her mug on the table and reached for a piece of paper. She grabbed her shiny, black quill and scribbled down a short message.

* * *

_Severus,_

_If you would like, I'm free for lunch on Thursday._

_Hermione_

* * *

It didn't take long before a familiar peck was heard on the window pane.

* * *

_Hermione,_

_That depends._

_S_

* * *

Hermione stared at the little piece of parchment, a cold feeling washing over her. She quickly reached for her quill again, biting her lip as she replied.

* * *

_Severus,_

_On what?_

_Hermione_

* * *

Another peck at the window, and the haughty-looking bird swooped in. Hermione unfolded the note.

* * *

_Hermione,_

_Container or no container._

_S_

* * *

Hermione laughed out loud. _Cheeky bastard._

* * *

_Severus,_

_No container, then._

_Hermione_

* * *

The bird was now making itself comfortable in her home, perching himself on the couch next to her, starting to clean its feathers as Hermione unfastened the note from his leg.

* * *

_Hermione,_

_Then I'll see you on Thursday._

_S_

* * *

_Author's note:_

I'm sorry this one took so long to get out, I felt like I was blasting it out of a rock.

Also - I took some liberties with the carnations. To you flower lovers/Victorian flower language-specialists out there - sorry, hope you don't mind!

(Laura909 - Ah, yes. I've watched my fair share of Downton Abbey but I didn't know her name was _Elsie_ Hughes! Weird. I've changed it now however - to Anette. I like Anette.)


End file.
